


He Was Seventeen

by awildlokiappears



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: He was just too friggin' cute., I couldn't stop myself, M/M, Minor in danger, NOT UNDERAGE., Teenage Drama, and making out, baby clint, but there is a happy ending, teenage Phil, tiny archer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awildlokiappears/pseuds/awildlokiappears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the time, when things happened to the Avengers (i.e., Clint and Tony), they were actually fairly warranted. And usually hit the correct targets, taught a lesson...Even the archer and engineer won't usually make the same mistake twice.</p><p>They didn't expect that to happen to their handler, and to Coulson's credit, he was handling it relatively well. Even if he didn't remember them. At all...</p><p>...and had a massive crush on Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShadowHaloedAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHaloedAngel/gifts).



_You have fifty-seven voicemails. Please enter your SHIELD Identity Number._

_-taptap-. -taptaptaptap-_

_First message. -click-_

_“Alright, I don’t have much time left, but what I do have, I’m gonna use better than you. Now shut up, sit down, and listen…”_

* * *

If Phil Coulson could have pinpointed the day his life turned upside down and became an endless stream of paperwork and annoyed grief, he would have pointed to a quiet day in March, in 2004. It should have been cause for celebration; he’d just been promoted to senior agent, had reached level six clearance, and he’d even beaten Fury at chess. He should have been enjoying his accolades and readying for the new task of forming his own strike team...But no.

That was the day Clinton Francis Barton, newly transferred from a jarhead regiment in the Middle East, punched Sitwell in the face over a can of Mountain Dew and led the whole of the then current agent population of SHIELD on a merry chase that ended with Phil putting a taser dart into his knee cap. Unfortunately, that only pissed him off, and Phil got tackled for the first time since he’d been made senior agent. It took three huge agents to pull Barton off, but not before the sniper got a punch in that left Phil with a split lip and a burning urge to thoroughly thrash him. Or kiss him.

Fast forward ten years and seven bitch fights later (they were SHIELD legend at this point, much to Clint’s pride, and Coulson’s annoyed dismay. May and Natasha had kept count), and Clint was the best specialist they had ever had. He was smart enough to read the signs, stubborn as a goat, and steady as a monolith; too many times to count, Coulson had trusted Clint’s eyes over all the other intelligence he’d had at his disposal, because Clint didn’t do things by halves, and he sure as hell didn’t look the other direction. They’d reconciled their differences over good beer and better pizza, developing a rapport that Fury routinely called ‘romantic’ under his breath, and that Phil simply acknowledged with a slim smile before jabbing an elbow into his superior’s gut.

Oh, the last decade had certainly brought the two closer together, especially after Natasha joined their team, but Phil...well. He didn’t believe in breaking that rule, not when Clint already caught so much shit about his last...several exes. He didn’t want to add to that number, either...and if he were honest with himself, he didn’t want to be the cause of the gray sadness that lined Clint’s face, like...others. It was selfish, and he knew it, but still…Clint mattered to him, and Phil wasn’t even sure the man would even want a relationship with another man; for all intents and purposes, Clint was as straight as his arrows, and there was little sense in adding awkwardness where there need be none.

“Twenty klicks out and coming in fast, bossman.” Clint’s voice sounded, soft and sure in his ear, and Phil let a little sliver of a smile cross his lips. Yeah, even if this was all he had, it was more than enough. This was the life they knew, had, really, always known. His gun was a comforting weight in his hand, the winds were dying down just enough…”Fair winds today.” Even if Clint couldn’t quite make out what the dark clouds to the south were bringing, he knew what to do, what he always had to do...

“Very much so. Where are you?” This would, hopefully, be an easy job; he was tired, and he really was looking forward to a day or so off. Clint and Tasha were due over at his place tomorrow anyway for their weekly Dinner Theatre; Clint would cook and shoo the two of them out of the kitchen, while Phil and Natasha both educated him on musicals, plays, and classic movies. Sometimes they switched it up to music, though he had quite an ear for it anyway, and sometimes it was books. Reading aloud, because the man who could snipe a fly off a daisy at five hundred yards and barely brush pollen off the flower had a hell of a hard time focusing on words. Phil never minded; Clint loved listening anyway, and it was easier for him to concentrate.

“Highest perch there is, you know that.” Dammit, that meant...

“...Up on the radio tower?”

“You know it. Ten klicks, sir.” Goddammit. Of course...

 “Barton…”

 “Five klicks and counting.” Oh, there was going to be hell to pay for this one.

 “Will you please come down?” Too late, the song of arrows filled his comm as the winds howled for a moment, something huge and heavy landing on the roof, and Phil swore softly, cocking his gun and bounding up the stairwell he’d been resting on. He took the six flights two, three steps at a time, heart hammering as his footfalls, normally silent, pounded through the concrete and metal, ringing all the way up. Arrowfall still sang in his ears, and as he shoved through the metal door Clint had so graciously left unlocked, he had to pause at the brilliant sunlight, half-blinded.

 “SIR, GET DOWN!” Clint’s howl through the comm unit brought him into immediate focus, and Phil dove for the gravel as something huge and heavy dove down towards him, turning up at the last second by the arrow that imbeded itself in the roof, nearly to the fletching. Phil rolled to his feet easily and took off at a run, bringing his gun up to fire at...damn. What he was staring at now defied any normal explaination, and he might not have recognized the monster for what it really was if he hadn’t glimpsed a scrap of fabric, tangled in the long mane, covered in runic symbols.

“Dammit, Barton, you didn’t say it was Asgardian!”

“I didn’t realize Loki’d gotten out! Or that the slimy shit could shape-shift!” Phil hissed angrily as a brilliant green tail lashed out, sending up a stinging spray of gravel while the serpent that Loki had become grinned viciously, all teeth and gaping jaws. If you looked closely, you could just make out the golden horns just above those slit-pupiled eyes, and the mane flowed from between them all the way down against rope after rope after rope of long, sinewy green scales, and Phil felt his heart stutter as the beast poured over the gravel, emerald eyes glinting.

“Welcome, Ageeent Coulsssson. I presssssume you remember me?” His voice was a mockery of the smooth accent he usually had, higher pitched and far more deadly. Loki towered over him, looking too much like that world wyrm thing Thor had mentioned last...Uroboros, that’s what he looked like. A monster of monsters, hell bent on revenge...

“Much, much to my dismay.” Phil unloaded a clip into the monster’s maw and as Loki reared back, screaming in rage, he took off towards the immense radio tower, just as Clint started in with his speciality arrows, the ones Phil always, always ended up banning from active duty. He had to admit though, the frost tip was very effective, and sent Loki back against the roof itself, the enormous serpent screaming obscenities as ice splintered over his eyes and nostrils.

The second was one actually created from the Destroyer that Loki himself had sent down, really not that long ago...and fire erupted where the ice had torn into the scales, and Phil deemed it prudent to haul ass as Loki started spitting, poison and blood splattering in steaming droplets all over the gray stone. Clint met him on the roof’s gray surface just as he made the tower, the ropes he’d swung down on abandoned, and the two took off towards the other end of the warehouse, Clint’s ruby lenses glinting in the bright sunlight.

“Helluva day, sir!” The grin on his face was all teeth and little amusement, and Phil smirked faintly, turning only to fire a few more shots at the beast, who had shrunk a little, flinging off bits of charred scale and frozen mane, still howling in anger.

“Helluva day indeed, Barton! Extraction point!”

“East of the building, Tasha’s got the chopper! We’re gonna have to swing it!” Phil squawked as he stumbled, Clint catching his jacket and hauling him back upright in the few seconds he’d delayed them. He was thankful for that strength, but only for a moment as he processed those words.

“Are you kidding me?!” Clint grinned wider now, humor clearly lighting his eyes as he drew his bow, the warehouse’s edge coming close. He had to be kidding, absolutely had to be...

“Nope! Best way to get down, especially fast! There’s Nat, c’mon!” Clint paused for a breath, half a moment, and his grappling arrow flew like a shadow of the wind, latching onto the helicoptor’s skids and fanning out dual lines. Phil caught his and still running, swore softly; he hated the jump, the sudden weightlessness…when behind them, he heard the terrible hiss of scale on stone, and risked a look back. Loki was shifting back, half snake, half Asgardian, all monster as he clawed and slunk over the stone, blood marring his handsome, cold features, one eye ravaged by the fire and ice, his face and bared chest covered in burns still icy on the edges. He raised a hand, hissing out a spell that he then flung into the air between them and Phil jerked back just as they hit the edge, his hands slipping on the line as alien magic burned through his body.

“COULSON!” Clint’s voice, normally so loud and belligerant and damned annoying, was fading in his ears, and wasn’t that ironic, because he was screaming, screaming Phil’s name, Phil could see that, as the wind whipped around him, and he fell, the spell wrapping around his conscious and-

Darkness.

* * *

_You have fifty-one voicemails._

_“Hey, you still there? Good, because seriously, this shit...this shit sucks. So much. And it doesn’t get any easier…_

* * *

“Barton, you will let me pass.”

“Over my dead body, sir.”

“...That can be arranged very, very easily..”

“You’ll see him when Bruce is done.”

“Dr. Banner…”

“Is just as trained as any other physician, and Coulson personally trusts him.”

“...You have ten more minutes.” The voices, they were odd; a deep voice, one that tolerated no nonsense, and a very slightly higher one, that clearly didn’t give two shits about the other one...and then there was the quiet murmur of whoever was flashing a light in Phil’s eyes and generally checking him over...Phil came to with a start and a bit-off swear, hissing faintly at the bright light and...were those restraints?

“Where the ever-living fuck am I?!” He snapped out, tensing against the leather and wool straps, more pissed off than he’d ever been, even when that bitch Amanda had stolen his boyfriend at homecoming. “And who the hell are you?” He snarled at the startled man with the curly, salt-and-pepper hair and round glasses. He looked careworn and rumpled, like he’d just been in bed, and Phil’s lip curled a little in disdain. He didn’t think he’d done anything to get him put in the hospital, but that was clearly where he was... The older man sighed, taking off his glasses, and settled back in his chair.

“Phillip James Coulson?” Phil stiffened, jaw set, and the man sighed again, this time more out of annoyance than weariness. “Look, I’ll let you go if you promise two things.”

“....What things?”

“Don’t take a swing at me, for one. Neither of us, nor anyone else, will like the result.” Came the enigmatic reply, and Phil raised an eyebrow, but nodded. That was fair...mostly. He really wanted to pick a fight right now, though….”Second, I need you to promise me that no matter what, you’ll at least hear myself, and those who want to talk to you, out. Because we’re doing this for your welfare, Phil, and we’d really like to make things work for a possible long-term.” Phil blinked, cocking his head now, more than a little confused.

“...Okay, fine. I won’t hit you, and I’ll listen to you. But, seriously, the hell is going on?”

“First off, I know your name, but you clearly don’t know me. I’m Bruce Banner.” He popped the buckles and let Phil shake out the pins and needles before offering a big, calloused hand. “Second, you were attacked by a magical spell that’s managed to revert you from forty-nine to somewhere in your teen years.” Phil gaped for a long moment, then gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He was vaguely aware of the voices quieting in the doorway, but there was a curtain up, and all he could see were tall shadows lurking, listening. He ignored them.

“You’re shitting me, right?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, hand still extended. “C’mon, dude, Bruce or whatever your name is, I can’t be almost fifty. I can’t.” Phil ignored his hand now, working the rest of the restraints off, frowning at the loose suit he was wearing. The shirt wasn’t that much bigger, but the pants barely stayed on his hips, and they were just a little too long; the jacket, or at least, he thought it was the jacket, was bunched up next to his pillow. Dark blue eyes darted around the room, narrowing at the small window, and the smaller vent above. If he could just...

“Please don’t try to escape.” Bruce’s wry voice froze him, and the doctor sighed, settling back and flipping through an obscenely thick file. From what little Phil could see, half of the notes were heavily redacted. “Look, you’re not nearly as good as you think you are, and unfortunately, SHIELD has your entire dossier. Including your juvie record.” Phil made a noise best defined as a squeak at that, eyes going wide as he stared. “Oh yes. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m very impressed by what I’ve heard.”

“You…”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Yet?”

“We’re not idiots, Phil, so you’d best get used to that. To be fair, though, it took you some time to adjust the first time around…”

“Are we done, Doctor Banner?” The deep voice sounded again, making Phil jump, eyes wide and his face going pale, because that did not sound friendly in the least...and a tall, one-eyed black man rounded the curtain, his long leather trenchcoat hardly concealing the obvious body armor under it. He was armed to the teeth, clearly, and Phil shivered at the opaque darkness in his eye. The man looked like he thrived on terror...and then Phil’s eyes locked on the man that came around the curtain behind him, and he shifted, just a hair, to hide the sudden reaction.

Because this guy? This guy was built, just the way Phil liked, and the teen felt his mouth go dry at the sight of those truly incredible arms. He was all muscle and craggy, handsome features, the stubble on his face just that extra layer of sex appeal. And those eyes...dark as storm clouds and just as alluring, ruby-tinted sunglasses pushing back blond-brown spiky hair as he crossed his arms and outright glared at the one-eyed man. The body armor they wore was similar, save this guy had no sleeves and...was that a shooting glove? Oh sweet god…

“You’ve seen him, now get the fuck out.” Even that gravelly voice was sexy, and Phil suppressed a whimper with sheer willpower, keeping his gaze locked on the taller man, because if he focused on Sexy over there…hell, even the tight band around his neck that held his earpiece was sexy, black leather on tanned skin, the cords in his neck just delicious looking...

“Barton, I will shoot you.” Barton, okay, that was a good name, it suited him, and Phil swallowed his arousal with difficulty, drawing all of his considerable anger and dismay into haughty arrogance. He was good at that.

“Who the fuck are you?” He demanded, bluffing for all his skinny worth, and hoping very, very much so that no one called him on it. One-eye gave him a look that made him want to apologize, but he held his ground, hands fisted in the sheets, before the other man sighed.

“...Director Nick Fury, of SHIELD. You don’t remember who you were, obviously, but I know quite well who you are, right at this moment. Phillip James Coulson, seventeen, proud miscreant of Boston, MA. Son of Robert and Julie Coulson, born July eighth, nineteen sixty-four, huge Captain America fanboy-”

“Stop!” He squawked, trying not to glance at Barton, though he could see a distinctly odd expression on the man’s face. He looked...like he wanted to...but why…”I want to see my parents! I’m a minor still, you can’t hold me without my parents being notified!” He demanded, feeling seven, not seventeen...and his breath stuttered as a deafening silence filled the room. Fury looked taken back, Barton had bitten off a swear, and Banner was looking down. Phil gulped audibly.

“Please...I just wanna talk to my mom.”

“...I’m very sorry, Phillip.” Fury said quietly, and turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. Banner followed, eyes pointedly ahead, and Phil stared after them, fear welling in his heart.

“Wait...please…”

“They’re gone, kiddo.” Barton’s voice was softer now, sad and broken in a way that Phil didn’t understand, and he looked at the man, really looked at him. And started to shake.

“Gone where?” He sounded like a little boy, and Barton’s face twisted, some long-seated grief clawing under the surface before he settled on patient, honest sympathy.

“They passed away when you were thirty, Phil. I’m very sorry...they aren’t here anymore.” He gaped, disbelieving, and Barton winced, shaking his head a little. “I’m sorry, I really am, but-”

“Barton, assignment.” The earpiece hanging off the band around his throat chirped, and he hissed out another foul word.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, kid, I gotta go...look, I’ll see if we can get Steve down here, he’s...he’s better at this. I’m sorry…” He took off as Phil startled back to awareness, and the teen felt despair wash over him as the door shut, ever so gently...the first sob took him completely by surprise, and he dissolved into a child’s tears, more alone than he’d ever been.

“Mom…”

* * *

Clint felt like he wanted to throw up. Actually, throw up, then shoot himself in the head for leaving Phil back there, all alone...but Bruce wasn’t going to tell the kid the truth, because Bruce had despised his parents, and Fury...Fury was expedient. And the sooner Coulson was back to normal, the better. But Clint...Clint had loved his mom, even if his old man had been a fuckin’ drunk and abusive asshole, and Phil had loved his parents, and they him, with all his heart...and Clint did love Phil.

That was the crux of it, really. The painful, heart-breaking crux of it. And Clint resolutely shoved those feelings back into the damn closet for the time being. And prayed that his foray down to the briefing room would bring him into close proximity of the one damn person in this whole building that could actually do something about this whole fucking mess...His head snapped up as he heard the rising voices ahead, and he breathed a faint thanks out when he recognized one. Cap was annoyed at the junior agents, but too polite to say no to their requests for autographs...well, Clint had no problem whatsoever interrupting. He pushed his lenses down and took a deep breath.

“Get the fuck back to your posts, junies, before I call Coulson on your sorry asses!” He snapped out as he rounded the corner, face a hawkish mask, mouth twisted in a scowl. The junies scrambled out of his way silently, racing off to face someone far less imposing, and Steve closed his eyes, rubbing his temple.

“Thanks, Clint…”

“Don’t mention it...Look...I...we have a problem.” Steve sighed a little, and Clint felt his heart fall.

“I know about Phil...”

“He didn’t know his parents were dead. He doesn’t know...anything but that he’s seventeen and now that he’s totally alone.” Clint could have smacked himself for blurting that out, and he winced as Steve froze, those bright blue eyes snapping wide open. Steve didn’t often look like that; like he was seeing ghosts seventy years in the past, but when he did, Clint knew now to wait, be patient…

“Which room?” That was Cap, all Cap, none of Steve’s sweet innocence showing in the frozen blue eyes, and Clint felt his spine straighten at the order in those words, shoulders dropping back.

“Down the hall to your left, seventh door on the right. Unmarked, though you’ll probably still be able to hear the sound of a young man crying.” Steve brushed past him, and Clint risked getting put into the wall to grasp his shoulder, pausing him. “...Go easy on him. He’s not the soldier you knew, he’s not even the man he was.” Those eyes seemed to thaw, just a little, and Clint let him go, watching until the dark blue leather went around the corner. He wanted to go back, but...his earpiece chirped again, and he swore, long and loud and full of venom, and settled for stomping down to the briefing room.

There was gonna be hell to pay for this.

* * *

_You have forty-three voicemails._

_“I don’t want this. I want to go home, but there’s no one left...you asshole, you fucking asshole, you shoulda left something like this...just in case."_

* * *

 Phil had soaked the expensive suit jacket by the time the soft knock sounded on the door; in all honesty, he wasn’t sure that he even really heard a knock, or just wished he did, until the knob turned and a tall shadow eased into the room. He hiccuped weakly and rolled towards the wall, curling around his pillow and the jacket, clutching the only things he had to his name so close, so maybe no one would take them from him.

 “Go ‘way…”

 “Phil?” The voice was low and masculine, but gentle; oddly gentle with the size of the man that settled on his bed. He was big, that much Phil could sense, but how much so, he could only guess from shadows and the weight pulling him back towards the door, the mattress sinking a little more. He shivered, too aware that he hadn’t even been left a blanket, and hiccuped again.

“Please, jus’ go ‘way…” He stammered out, eyes squeezing shut. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to be here, wanted to go home...wanted to go home to his mom and his dad, to his chocolate Lab, Roxy, and the quiet home he’d grown up in...When the sudden realization that that, all of that, was gone, really hit him. He started to sob harder now, every wall he’d ever had up breaking, and he barely heard the bitten off curse before two big arms hauled him upright and he was pressed to a warm, leather-covered chest.

He howled his grief and fury, lost himself in the whirlwind of sorrow, and gradually, painfully, cried himself hoarse. The grief drained out just as slowly, leaving him quiet and sniffling, cradled to the man’s chest like a child...and for this guy’s size, he almost could have been a little kid. This man was enormous, all around, and Phil felt his tension ease, just a little, as a big, calloused hand stroked through his hair, deep voice singing a soft, soft Irish lullaby. Why that particular song struck him, he wasn’t sure; it was odd to hear, almost, but comforting, and where there had been knife-sharp shards before, numbness crept in. It wasn’t...good. But it wasn’t as bad. And maybe, that was good.

“....Thanks, Mister…?”

“Just Steve. I’m sorry, so sorry, Phil, that things had to come out this way…” That was when he looked up, brows knitting at the name ‘Steve’...and Phil’s jaw dropped open. The man who had held him as he bawled like a baby was none other than a very concerned looking Steven Rogers...Captain freakin’ America. Phil felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly with the newest shock, and Steve must have seen something in his face, because the man pulled back and pressed an empty wastebin into his arms...and Phil lost everything he’d ever had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

* * *

“...All due respect, sir, but you can take your high-handed bullshit and shove it up your-”

“Agent Barton would be better suited on surveillance detail for the latest of Loki’s victims.” Natasha cut him off smoothly, shooting a glare his way as his mouth hung open, and he snapped his jaw shut with a growl, turning to stare out the window. She could deal with Fury’s shit today; he’d done more than enough already, and he closed his eyes with a grimace, flashing back to just a little while earlier, when they’d been so close to escaping...so close…

Phil was looking back, Clint didn’t know why, but he was looking back at the thing Loki had become, and Clint fired the dual lines, hoping he could get his handler’s head back in the game. He knew the temptation was there, to take on the sorry bastard and get a little revenge, but pragmatism came with experience, and if ever there was something out of his league, Loki was certainly it. But Phil was catching the line, jumping off...and the son of a bitch, he looked back again...and this time, it all went to hell. The flash of light seared even through his lenses, and Clint had to blink several times before he realized that Phil was struck, and he was falling. He heard himself screaming from far away, even as his body slid down the line, reacting when he could not act of his own accord, and he wrenched his shoulder to catch his now unconscious handler, tying him onto the line before letting Natasha carry them away. Something was wrong, was so wrong, but Clint couldn’t figure it out, and Phil was-

“Barton, your report.” He grit his teeth, whole back tensing as the remembered pain shot through his shoulder blade; he wasn’t badly hurt, it’d just be a bitch to draw the bowstring for a day or two, and he wanted to ice it. But work first. He rattled off the report, sharp, too sharp, of course, always too acidic for Fury and Hill’s tastes, but it was efficient. Efficient and brutally honest, and finally, they dismissed them both, and Clint beelined for Stark’s undercover little bar, sunken in the bowels of the SHIELD building. Technically, it didn’t exist, but also technically, neither did half of SHIELD, so Clint figured it didn’t matter anyway. And god, he needed a drink and a smoke. And Tony would have both, at the ready.

To his surprise, both Bruce and Tony had the bar running today; he slipped inside, holding the door for Tasha, and locked it behind both of them; he didn’t have a key, but he had a lockpick kit, and they were almost the same thing. Tony waved them over, and Clint looked interested in the way that the smoke from both their cigarettes didn’t linger.

 “Advanced filtration system, I wanted a place where we could really relax.” He answered in lieu of an actual question, the stub resting between greasy fingers as he flickered over what Clint could only assume were the SHIELD databases. He just shrugged and stole two from the pack, offering one to a weary Natasha, who lit it, then his, and started mixing them both some shots.

 “Thanks, Tony...this…”

 “Yeah, yeah, I know.” The mechanic looked up now, dark eyes ringed with shadows and his normally trim beard scruffy, and his hands and arms were streaked in black grease, knuckles broken open and a hangnail forming. “Look...Bruce told me what happened. I take it Cap’s…?”

 “Hopefully explaining this shit to him. Because I...I can’t. I fucking suck at emotions and crap anyway, and this…”

 “Is a clusterfuck all around.” That was Bruce, who stubbed out his cig and came over, nursing a rather large glass of scotch as he set his tablet on the counter between them, Coulson’s dossier files uploaded on the scratched glass surface. “Whatever was done to him, he doesn’t know what he was...and that makes him a hell of a liability. There are some very powerful people in this world, and outside of it, who hate Coulson with every inch of their being…” His blood ran cold; he could name seven off the top of his head.

 “Fuck.”

 “Exactly. I’ve already put in paperwork to make us his legal guardians. And I contacted Strange.” Now all three of them stared at Tony, and he grimaced. “Look, I know it’s not something I like to do, but I’ve got no way of fixing him to back how he should be; Stephen might. No guarantees he won’t drive me absolutely batshit, but at least this means Phil won’t get taken by Child Services or some shit. And maybe this will wear off soon. Maybe not. Fuck if I know.” Clint wanted to throw up again now, and he pushed away his alcohol, focusing instead on the burn of nicotine in his veins. He hadn’t smoked in a few years, but today...it burned a little of the nausea away, and he rubbed his eyes.

 “So we put him in the Tower till this shit is fixed; yeah, like one pissed off teenager will do great with six adults and an AI disciplining him.” He muttered, and Bruce sighed.

 “Better that than have him dead.” Okay, yeah, that was so true, and Clint did his damnedest to hide the twitch; judging by Natasha’s faint eyebrow, he wasn’t entirely successful. But Tony barreled on, setting up plans already for Phil’s rooms to be retrofitted with gaming systems and new clothes, and locking Phil’s access to the lower levels until otherwise specified. He personally didn’t think this was gonna work; actually, he was already laying a bet in his head that not even Gambit would take that this shit was all gonna backfire. But it was all they had, and at the moment, he’d rather have that, than have Phil dead.

 Fuck, he was so screwed.

* * *

Phil had never been so miserable in all his young life. And if he was counting the last time he’d spent three days in the Boston Juvenile Detention Center...yeah, this was pretty bad. He was hunched over in ratty jeans and a band shirt borrowed from that Tony guy; he was a bit manic and annoying, but nice enough to lend him clothes. Clint...that was Barton’s first name, and Phil had finally managed to stop swooning around him, had offered, but all the clothes he’d brought were just too big…he’d saved one of the belts offered, though, and it was a comforting weight around his waist as he was escorted through into the basement of the enormous Tower, his eyes wide and bewildered. This place...this place was massive!

 How the hell had Stark built it all? He knew about Iron Man now, and of course he’d known about Cap...and this whole Avengers thing, it seemed bizarre, insane that the world still needed superheroes this far into the future...and that he had been the one to organize them. It seemed...crazy. Insane. Terrifying…he hunched over the bundle in his arms, the suit he’d been in when whatever the fuck had happened to him wrapped up neatly, and he clutched it close. It was a lifeline, of sorts, of normalcy, even if it wasn’t his kind of normal. A big arm rested lightly over his shoulders, and he glanced up, startled.

 Clint’s face looked like it could have been carved from stone, silent behind those ever present lenses, but the arm was reasuring and strong, and Phil leaned into it, a little surprised by the comfort it gave him. They passed into the elevator, just two of the Avengers and Phil, (Bruce and Tony were talking to some guy named Stephen, and the Black Widow was nowhere to be seen) and he closed his eyes, feeling the slow climb up to what he assumed were the living quarters. Tony had explained everything, brown eyes flashing as he laid out the quarters Phil would have, and the conditions he would be living under. Phil didn’t like it, but he couldn’t debate it; Bruce and Fury had been in the room too, quiet and serious, and they’d all explained that without the Avengers, without SHIELD...he didn’t stand a chance. And he’d had the time to read over a little of his files…

 He really was alone.

 “Thanks…”

 “....No prob. How’re you...how’re you doing?” Clint looked at him now, and Phil swallowed, painfully aware of the height difference between them; it didn’t seem like much at first, but Clint was a good five or so inches taller...and just...yeah, okay, he had to get his head out of his ass. The guy was just being nice, and clearly felt awkward as fuck.

 “...I’m...okay.” He replied quietly, carefully, and Clint was watching him, gauging his response, and he gave a weak, sad laugh. “Well, okay, I feel like shit, but...yeah. I’m...I’m okay.” A soft huff of a laugh made him smile, just a little, and Clint’s arm left his shoulders, big hands settling deep in the pockets of his jacket, and Phil felt just that little bit colder.

 “That’s...that’s good...So, um, right now, Tony and the others have it set up so technically we’re your legal guardians until this...crap stops, okay?”

 “....Dude, you can swear around me.”

 “You’re like, fifteen, and I get in enough trouble as it is.” Phil gave him a glare and Clint just shrugged. “What, it’s true, and no, don’t look at me like that.”

 “I’m seven-fucking-teen!”

 “Language, Phil.” He winced as Captain-...Steve sighed behind them, looking odd in plaid and khaki. “And stop baiting Clint, please. Tony does that enough as it is.” He grumbled just a little, but the elevator chose at that moment to ding open, onto a neat, modern hallway that led to a handsome oak door. He was escorted over steel gray carpeting, and Clint opened the door...to a nice apartment, clearly that of an older man’s, but...Phil felt his heart leap. Along the wall to his left, his whole Captain America collection stood proud and strong, even his trading cards...to his right, a small kitchenette, barely a cabinet, a range, and a microwave, but it was enough. Just beyond the bar-counter of the kitchen was a small couch and huge panel of glass; it popped alive with news and sports, and he realized it was a damned television, so slim it could be mounted on the wall.

 “Whoa…” Back to the left was a door half-open; he could see a handsome bed and what looked like a deep closet, and he figured the bathroom was just beyond it too. It wasn’t huge, by any means, but going from his tiny attic bedroom at the top of his parent’s house to...this...it was palacial in size. It was all perfect...and he was dimly aware of Clint slipping out, Steve almost following him. He turned, swallowing the lump in his throat, and Steve gave him a weary, gentle smile.

“Dinner’s at six; one of us can come get you, if you’d like, or we can just send you an alert to your phone.”

“An...an alert’s fine...thanks. Um...yeah...thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Just let us know if you need anything, alright?”

“S-sure…” Steve closed the door gently, and Phil swallowed, turning back. This was it...he ducked his head. “Mom….”

“What do I do?”


	2. Chapter 2

_You have thirty-eight voicemails._

_“I thought a night in Charlestown was hell. I’m sorry you had to deal with these dickheads. Or maybe not; you did take the job voluntarily. Idiot.”_

 

* * *

 

That first night had been hell; twice, Clint found himself in the vents, sweatpants and tee shirt getting dusty as could be as he checked on Coulson...Phil. Phil. Right. Because this wasn’t his handler, the unflappable bastard he’d had the hots for since...well...that first fight. He still had the scar on his kneecap, and he knew that Phil had let his ass off easy. Even if Cooper, Bradson, and Johns hadn’t dragged him off, Clint probably would have stopped after that one punch anyway; he hadn’t realized he was taking down a senior agent. Still proud of that, though...but...Clint wasn’t gonna let him be alone...not after what they’d just told him. That was just too cruel…

Phil slept poorly; Clint wasn’t surprised in the least, and he sat up the second time, just watching him toss and turn and occasionally lift his head to check the Starkphone Tony had given him. And all the while, Clint studied him. His eyes flickered over that strong young jaw, the patch of muscle and skin on his abdomen, blessedly unscarred by a scepter from an insane god. Long arms and legs, slender but muscled; a track star’s legs, certainly, if those thighs were as toned as they seemed...And he felt like a fuckin’ perv. But someone had to watch over him, and Clint...well. The hours clicked by, punctuated only by the soft flash of the phone’s screen and Phil’s tossing, and finally, as gray dawn filtered through the blinds, Clint withdrew just as silently as he’d come.

He returned to his rooms and took a long, cold shower, scrubbing away the memories and dust with his harshest brush, gasping a little as the water went straight to ice. It hurt, so much, but it was better than the sight of Phil’s mouth open, gasping softly in his sleep, shirt riding up, pants sliding down...the reaction was immediate. He hissed and punched the wall of his shower, snarling at himself as he willed his dick to behave.

“No, goddammit! He’s just a fuckin’ kid! Just a fuckin’ kid, with no parents, and no fucking home.”

“Agent Barton?” Jarvis’s concerned voice brought him out of the sudden rage, and he glanced over at his hand...currently buried in the now broken tiles, and as he flexed, he hissed again, this time with pain as two broken knuckles ground together. “Should I contact Doctor Banner-”

“No, no, it’s fine, Jarv, just...yeah, just...let me wrap these. Is my kit still in my room?”

“Of course; Agent Romanov restocked it, in case you should need it.”

“...I’ll thank her too. Thanks…I’ll be on the range if anyone needs me.” There was a soft huff, the equivalent of Jarvis sighing, and he rolled his eyes, carefully dislodging his hand. The pain had done what his mind could not; he didn’t know if that was necessarily a good thing now, but let the shards fall to the tub basin. “You know damn good and well I’m ambidextrous; they won’t get much strain if I hold the bow with this hand. I need to improve my right hand’s draw strength anyway. Just...don’t tell anyone.”

“...I disagree with that, personally, Agent, but if you insist. I shall even direct the Captain to visit Agent Coulson instead of yourself, which he was about to do.” Clint looked up at that, grinning just a little as he washed the ceramic dust and blood out of the deep cuts and inspecting the torn skin. No muscle damage, just a few more scars on his knuckles. Natasha would call his bluff, but probably wouldn’t do much about it; he’d hurt himself far worse, for far worse reasons, and she wasn’t too inclined to care much unless he sliced an artery or something of the like.

“...Thanks, Jarvis. Anything I can do for you in return?”

“Do not feed sir expresso. The Captain made a very incorrect choice this morning.” Clint smiled to himself as he stepped out of the shower, one-handed tying his towel and wrapping his hand in one of the dark purple terry cloths Tasha had gotten him for his birthday two years ago. The blood was starting to taper off, thankfully, and he took a little bit to wrap it all up neatly, crossing the bandages over his knuckles. He tied them off, and fished out his left handed glove carefully, drawing it on with a faint wince. It would hurt like a bitch for a while, but if he just let them sit, they’d swell badly, and if he had to go out fighting...well. This was easier. More painful, but easier.

“Deal.”

“I appreciate your understanding, Agent Barton.”

“As do I, yours.” He got dressed, old jeans and a tee-shirt as usual,d and shoved his feet into thick old socks, then into his motorcycle boots. His bow sat, as always, in its cradle above his headboard, and he pulled down a basic quiver with simple shafts from his weapons case, and scooped it up, taking distinct comfort in her curves and weight. He might be conflicted about everything else right now...but he never was with Artemis. He left a message on his door’s plate for anyone who might come looking for him; most likely not, but he’d long since learned not to just disappear. It wasn’t worth Natasha’s pissy mood for three months after, and really, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary; unless he was on a mission, ten to one he was at the gorgeous range Tony had created for him in the vast basement of the Tower. Contrary to popular belief, Tony didn’t have his den down there; no, all that was in the basement was the gun range, and a vast archery/sniper range, built into the bedrock of Manhattan, and designed to recreate any possible environment on Earth.

A baker’s dozen of advanced AI drones and bots lorded over its terrain and artificial weather system, and Clint had the most unique training simulation on the planet. And he fuckin’ loved it. He could do nearly anything he wanted, train under any condition he could dream of, and at the end of the day, one particular little bot always cleaned up the shell casings, or fetched his arrows for him. He hadn’t been to SHIELD’s pathetic excuse for a range for that exact reason in almost six months. Part of that too may have been bribery on Tony’s part, but Clint didn’t mind too much; here, he could get into his headspace, and wonder of wonders, people actually left him the fuck alone.

It was glorious.

So much so, that by the time he’d spent all of his arrows and was checking the string as his favorite ‘bot brought his ammo back, he hadn’t even realized Natasha was watching him until she cleared her throat. He winced at the yelp and jump he gave, pain shooting through his bad shoulder and hand, but there too, if Tasha didn’t want to be seen...she wouldn’t be.

“What happened to your left hand?” Ah, nothing slipped her eye, and he sighed.

“Punched a wall.” It did no good to lie to her; he’d seen the unfortunate bastards she’d punished for that offense, and had no intention of ending up on a SHIELD burn list.

“...Did the wall make a joke about your face?” That got a short weak laugh out of him, and he shook his head, settling Artemis on the arms table as he gathered up the small pile of arrows his bot was leaving for him.

“Surprisingly, no, but Jarvis is more polite than that.”

“Mmm. True. So.” That one word hovered in the air, and he took off his sunglasses, scrubbing his good hand through hair now dark with sweat. His left hand ached brutally, as did the muscles in his right arm, but they were minor compared to the turmoil in his heart and head. Especially now, when Tasha’s brilliant green eyes were holding him in place. If he moved, even breathed wrong, she’d be on him like fire to tinder.

“...Trust me, you don’t want to know, Nat.” He kept his tone light, gentle almost, placing the shafts in their slots just so, knowing what was coming…

“You don’t trust yourself around Phil.” Yup. Right on the head.

“You could be a damned psychic, you know that?” Her laugh was soft, a little sad, and she dropped into a loose crouch next to him, watching as he tucked each arrow away. There was something of a cat’s stare in her eyes; he’d told her that once, before they’d become such good friends, and Natasha hadn’t, surprisingly, taken it badly. Most women assumed it was a pussy joke; she had simply cocked her head and asked him to explain.

“You know that wouldn’t work, and I’d be bored. Can I ask why, or should I keep guessing?”

“I’m quite sure you can guess just fine, Tasha. Look...I’m trying my damnedest here not to be the creepy motherfucker. I’m thirty five; Phil is...was almost fifty. That, that we could have managed; I wouldn’t even have batted an eyelash, and he probably would have gotten a few jabs about cradle robbing, but.... But this...this is all wrong. And damn, he’s fuckin’ sexy even now.” The look she gave him was almost soft, sweet for her, and full of sympathy; she’d known, through Bobbi and Drew and Jan and the others...known that his door swung both ways, and that when he finally fell...he fell hard for the man with the innocent smile and the killer headlock.

“Mmm...you are succeeding. But it’s been, what, a day? You can’t stay on the range forever; at some point, you will have to see him.”

“And say what? Do what? He doesn’t remember us, Nat. He doesn’t remember Wednesday dinners and jokes over the comms, doesn’t remember that you like your pirogi with sausage and egg and that I’d sooner starve than eat a well-done steak. He doesn’t remember your favorite color or my favorite band, he didn’t even know that his parents had been dead for nearly twenty years. He’s seventeen in body and mind, and he’s alone; and I saw the way he looked at me when I first came into his room.” She winced at that; he knew she’d seen the security footage, knew she understood now. “Yeah…”

“...Then we educate him. And limit your contact, for your sanity’s sake. Hell, Cap’s already elected himself babysitter for the day, so we might as well go hide in Tony’s shop.”

“And what makes you think that Cap won’t come down with him? We all know that Steve only pretends to hate Tony…” She gave a snort, partly because it was true, and partly because he was clearly being an idiot, and those eyes locked on his.

“...Because Stephen Strange is down there with Tony and Bruce, and Stephen will not allow Steve to bring Phil down just yet.” He gulped suddenly, freezing in place, and she nodded, faint and a little unnerved herself. “And his orders are to bring you to him.”

“...Well, fuck.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for seeing me, Agent.” As far as allies went, Stephen Strange was the only one that simultaneously terrified and intrigued Clint, and he had a healthy respect for the man and his very real powers. He’d seen some shit as a carny, but Strange...he was the real McCoy. Strange, in turn, had a respect for Clint that the archer still found slightly gratifying; Richards always gave him colossal shit for his bow and arrows, as did many of the other superheroes. But Stephen...did not. It was refreshing, but at the moment, he was more concerned with the serious expression on the adept’s face. He looked...worried. And that never boded well. He glanced down at Clint’s hand, though, and belatedly, he remembered his broken bones; a wordless gesture from Strange, and the pain vanished, the bones knitting seamlessly. It wasn’t much, but...

“It’s an honor, Doctor, and thank you...what can I do to help?”

“Can you describe Loki’s form to me, please? Fury’s reports...are singularly unhelpful, and Natasha’s camera from the helicopter is badly altered by the magics that caught Agent Coulson, and I can’t get a clear image. Please, I would not ask otherwise…” No, he wouldn’t. Clint knew that. He took a deep breath, and with the help of some of Tony’s holographic drawing programs, he was able to mostly recreate what Loki had looked like in his serpent form, and the half-human form he’d begun to transform back into when the attack had occurred. Finally, he was finished, and Stephen took over, toying with the holograms, his brow furrowed.

“...That’s all I have…” He murmured, pulling off the bandages and examining the broken skin. It hurt to flex, sure, but the bones were perfectly aligned, and if he gave himself a day, he could go back to drawing with his left hand. He owed the man a real thank you; he still had some contacts in the underbelly of the world, and he knew Strange was looking for certain magical things, so he made a mental note to put the word out.

“That’s...more than enough, Agent. I have never seen this sort of power before, not even in Loki; there is something deeply amiss here. Tony, you said Thor had returned to Asgard some weeks ago, yes?” Tony came up behind them, a wrench twirling uneasily in his fingers. He didn’t like Strange in his sanctuary, no, but for his part, Stephen never did judge the level of filth Tony preferred to work in, and so Tony accepted it. Not well, mind you, but he did accept it. And whenever Stephen did consultation for the Avengers, he was clear, concise, and did not speak in the normal magical mumbo-jumbo Tony despised.  

“Yeah, just said he had some family matters to take care of. We all figured it was Loki, to be honest...and Jane hasn’t gotten a good or bad word from Asgard via Heimdall, so…”

“Well, I think I can pinpoint one thing; this isn’t Loki.” Clint’s head snapped up, staring at the mage, and Stephen’s lips twisted in faint anger. “No, it certainly is not; Loki is mad, yes, and dangerous, doubly so...but he is not reckless like this. He is conniving and cunning, and this...this is all brute power, all very real, unfortunately, but still an illusion. Whoever created this creature wanted us to believe it to be the Trickster God.” Clint tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but ended up croaking anyway.

“So...there’s no way to fix…”

“...That, I’m not so sure of. The spell, ironically enough, is one of Loki’s, and one of his most powerful; were he the castor, it would certainly be permanent. In fact, Agent Coulson’s age would then begin to regress, to the point where he became nothing but atoms.” Clint wanted to throw up again at that, nausea swirling in his gut, but Strange’s powers took over the holograms at that point, white-blue energy filling the normal blue screens. Tony was distinctly annoyed, but to Clint’s surprise, allowed it. “This...this is an oddity indeed. I examined his suit, and found traces of what seems to be an earthly magic; something that is notoriously hard to transform anything with, even if I haven’t seen this particular type before. I will meet with Agent Coulson later, but I truly believe he will return to his older self soon; how soon, I cannot say, but...the spell is already beginning to unravel.” All the air left Clint’s lungs in a weak laugh, and he covered it with a cough, standing once more.

“Alright, thanks...Can I ask why you wanted me down here in particular, other than the description?” He gave Strange a relieved, vague smile...though it died at the man’s next words.

“Of course. Because whoever cast this spell knew you are in love with Agent Coulson.”

 

* * *

 

_You have thirty-six voicemails._

_“How in the hell are you so blind? Seriously. You’re gettin’ up there, geezer…”_

 

* * *

 

Phil didn’t want to wake up. He’d laid in bed, far past his alarm, and he knew it had to be close to noon now; Steve come and gone, and come back again, but rather than force him to get up, he’d simply asked if Phil needed anything, and offered a light breakfast. The teenager had been polite, all things considered, but turned him down; between the aching grief that seemed to fill his bones and the constant nausea, food was the farthest thing from his mind...in fact, everything but the depression that seemed to fill his very soul seemed distant and unimportant.

He just wanted to disappear.

“...Mr. Coulson?” He stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowing, before he remembered; Tony’s artificial intelligence. Right. What’s-his-name…

“...Yeah, Jarvis?”

“Might I offer some assistance?” He snorted softly, and covered his eyes with his arm; if the richest guy in the world couldn’t do anything to help him besides put him up, then a computer couldn’t.

“Nah, it’s okay. I’m just...gonna stay here.”

“...Forgive me for being impolite, but...you cannot simply remain in this room forever. You need to eat, to drink, to use the facilities; you also need interaction. Wasting away will do no one any benefit; least of all yourself.” Phil groaned and rolled over, pulling the blankets back over himself.

“Look, I don’t wanna get up, so I’m not gonna. You wanna do something? Leave me the hell alone, okay?” Or better yet, get me that sexy agent...He felt his lips twitch up a little at that, a tiny spark of arousal easing the pain, but his smile died after a moment. Clint wouldn’t be interested in a fuckin’ scrawny ass like himself; he was the kind of guy that women threw themselves at. Not the kind of guy who had the hots for other dudes. Which, as far as Phil was concerned, was a crying shame, but what could he do? He didn’t want to alienate anyone here...he already felt alienated enough.

“Mr. Coulson…”

“Mr. was my old man. I’m just Phil. Now leave me the hell alone.” That was pretty damned rude, he knew that, but Phil had given up on caring. So instead of occupying himself like he used to when he was stuck in bed, with a hand in his pants and a fantasy, he curled up and resolutely put everything from his mind; Clint, the last twenty-four hours, Mom, Dad...and he let the gray numbness wash over him once more. It wasn’t a nice feeling, but it didn’t hurt. And maybe, that was all he needed after all.

 

* * *

 

“Captain Rogers?” Steve raised a heavy head from where it had been cushioned on his fist as he scrolled through the local news reports, keeping himself up to date on the world outside, carefully tipping back to give the ceiling his attention. A year ago, he would have thought himself insane for talking to the AI that ran Tony’s Tower with such aplomb; now, it was just polite.

“Yeah, Jarvis?”

“I believe Agent Coulson may need someone to intervene; he will not eat, will not attempt to leave the bed. And will not accept my suggestions.” There was a hint of annoyance there, and Steve hid a smile. Jarvis did not take kindly to anyone but Tony being a pain in his ass; Tony, he suspected, was solely because the man actually did listen to the AI. If belatedly. But Jarvis was right; Steve had coddled him this morning, because he still remembered what it had been like when he’d lost his Ma. He remembered the loneliness and the grief, the sorrow so deep, it never seemed to heal...and Bucky had been right with him, then. Even after Buck had fallen into that fissure...he’d had Peggy and the Commandos. And after all of that, his makeshift, broken family here.

“I believe you’re right, as usual, Jarvis. Thank you; I thought giving him some space might help.”

“Thank you, Captain; you were correct, but he is lapsing back into depression and stupor, and for the sake of all involved, I determined that this must not happen.” There was a thread of something in the AI’s voice...worry? That didn’t surprise Steve; Jarvis was extraordinary in his own right, moreso now than ever before, and once again, he was astounded by the level of intelligence and will Tony had given his creations. It didn’t seem like much to Tony, but to Steve…

“I understand. Are they done in the workshop?”

“They are. Doctor Strange would like to meet with Agent Coulson, if you would be so kind as to escort him down?” Steve grinned at that, and stood.

“Oh, I think I can manage that…”

 

* * *

 

Clint was still standing there, gaping and struck dumb, when Steve finally dragged a fighting, pissed off Phil Coulson into the workshop, carrying him like a naughty kitten by the scruff of his tee shirt while Phil tried to swing at him. The sight alone was hilarious, but Clint could barely bring himself to think, let alone laugh.

“I don’t care if you really are Cap, get the fuck off me!”

“You really are full of piss and vinegar, aren’t you?” Steve was as calm as a clam, and dumped the teen onto Tony’s battered orange couch before standing back, crossing his arms, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his left bicep. “Sorry for the delay, Stephen…” Strange just hid a faint smile and shook his head.

“It’s quite alright; I see he’s very unhappy with the circumstances?”

“You’re damn right I am!” Phil snapped out, righting himself with a few loud, choice swears, and Clint snapped out of his reverie, slipping back to lose himself behind Natasha. Phil must not have seen him just yet; he breathed a faint prayer. She gave him a pitying glance, but focused her attention on their deaged handler now, and he did as well, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“Fair enough. Phil Coulson, I’m Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme and ally of the Avengers.” He stared up at Strange, all the fight banked, and Clint swallowed. He looked even better in a tight tee shirt and jeans; he must have borrowed a pair of Tony’s battered Converse, too, because the black monochromes were ripped and scuffed. He had more hair at this age, too, and it was cutely ruffled, contrasting with the hot anger in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

Goddamn, he was gorgeous like that; it took every ounce of self-control the archer had to not stalk over there, throw the sexy little shit over his shoulder, and run off.

“...So, you’re what? A mage?”

“Mmhmm. And I’m here to figure out how much time you have left under that spell.”

“And how the hell do you do that?” Stephen took his demands in stride, and spent the next half-hour or so explaining, carefully and concisely, what exactly he was doing as he examined Phil. He never once touched the boy, but clearly, he didn’t need to; when he lifted a patch of the spell up, it drew away from Phil’s skin like a net, leaving the boy startled and looking rather afraid now. Clint did not like seeing that on his face, and averted his eyes, studying something, anything but Phil, until Stephen finally stepped back. His eyes lit on the kitchen sink cookies, and he felt his brows knit together; Bruce caught his gaze and simply smiled, mouthing ‘For Tony’. He let the faint smile twitch over his lips, and nodded.

“Well, there’s good news, and bad news.” Tony sighed, and rubbed a greasy hand over his face, ignoring the streaks of motor oil that ended up all over his cheekbones and into his hair. Steve just winced in sympathy for the person on laundry duty.

“Give us the bad news first.”

“He’ll be under this spell for longer than I anticipated.”

“And the good news?” That was Nat, hands on her hips and lips thinned to a dangerously thin line.

“...We only have until July to wait. His eighteenth birthday will break the spell.” Everyone seemed to blink at that, and Clint shifted, sighing a bit. No one jumped at the obvious elephant in the room, so he took a stab at it.

“Why at eighteen?” His voice was still hoarse from the dust last night, and from lack of sleep, and Phil’s eyes locked on him, a strange look in them...no. He knew that sort of look. It was a hunger, the hunger of a horny teenage male, and Clint felt distinctly ashamed that his dick twitched in response. He managed to obliterate his reaction by imagining Fury in a bikini.

A string one.

“...This is purely conjecture on my part, but I believe that whoever stole this spell, they changed it. And one of the changes is a much shortened, and ultimately, less hazardous duration; once he turns eighteen, on the stroke of the hour he was born, he will return to the man he once was.”

“You’re sure of this?” Steve took over now, saving Clint’s skin. Clint reminded himself to make the man his favorite pizza later.

“Yes. Until then, I think it is very prudent to continue as you have all planned; keep him safe, because until July, those who once feared him, and find out about this occurance, will seek every means to destroy him. Phil…” He turned back to the teen, who had gone pale, eyes wide and huge, and Clint swallowed. Even if he was uncomfortable, he hated seeing Phil look like that. It just wasn’t right. “You must listen to them, and allow the Avengers to aid you; if you do not, none of us can protect you, and believe me, you’ll need protecting.” He turned now, not unkindly, and bowed low.

“Thank you for calling on my services; I’ll be back by the end of the week to check on him. Please, don’t hesitate to call.” Tony grinned a little, and reached out, offering his hand; Stephen shook it with a matching smile, completely ignoring the grease all over his gloves.

“Does this mean you’ll be billing me?”

“Only a reduced fee, my friend; I must put bread on my table too.”

“Of course. Let us know if you need anything, alright?”

“I shall. Good day, everyone.” With that, he vanished in a swirl of darkness and light, and Tony sighed.

“I hate when he does that shit…”

“But we got some answers, and that’s worth it.” Steve stepped forward now, and Clint...he slipped out of the workshop, unsurprised when the others let him go. He...needed a moment. Actually, he needed to fuckin’ shoot something, but that was out of the question. So instead, he beelined to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and decided to make a sandwich. A slim hand touched the back of his shoulder, tentative, and he sighed.

“How long has everyone known?” Natasha leaned into his back, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he tipped his head back, eyes closing, one big hand closing over her smaller ones. She’d once been someone he’d been hopelessly in love with, and now, she was the closest to a sister that he’d ever had. And ever would have. “Nat…”

“Since I defected, at least. Fury? Probably longer. The rest of the superhero community? Probably just in the last year.” He gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh, and knocked back his whiskey, savoring the sweet burn as he slathered mustard on a thick slice of wheat and started piling on veggies.

“Son of a bitch…”

“That about sums it up. Clint…”

“I know, I’m a sorry excuse…”

“He loves you.” He paused, turned in her arms, his food forgotten...her eyes were sad, so sad, and he swallowed painfully.

“...I love him too. But...I can’t…”

“I know. Can I help?” There was something in her gaze, a determination to do all she could for him...and he knew, if he asked for anything, anything at all...she’d do it. Even if it crossed lines they both promised would never be crossed again. He just hugged her tight instead, breathing in the faint scent of peony and cherry blossom; she never smelled the same twice, an old habit from her days in the Red Room that they never had really broken. It was one of a thousand things that he knew, and that Phil had known, and it...hurt that he didn’t know them now. He wasn’t mad about it, not at Phil, at least, but...it still hurt.

“...Just...Help me be the man he deserves.” Two slender hands came up around his neck, and she smiled; he could feel it, it was so big.

“I can do that.”

 

* * *

 

_You have thirty-three voicemails._

_“So, this whole twenty-first century shit is both amazing, and really, really fucking weird. And you clearly need to get laid, okay?”_

 

* * *

 

A week in, Clint wasn’t so sure they were going to survive the next three and a half months after all; in that time, Phil had managed to wreck absolute havoc on the entire Tower. The kitchen was in utter shambles, the den where they usually collapsed for movies and pizza after a battle was smothered in exploded marshmallow, and if they hadn’t had protocols in place to keep Phil on only the main level and his rooms, he was sure they’d have lost the workshop and range as well. Tony was even now secluding himself down in the shop, trying to save the fridge and oven; the microwave was a lost cause, and how the fuck had that happened?!

Because Phillip J. Coulson was a goddamned terror, that’s why, and here he was dragging the brat down to the gym, locking all access until he’d gotten some of that hellish energy worked out. Clint didn’t particularly want to be alone with him, but Steve was pulling his hair out and swearing, Tony’s eye was twitching, Bruce had been greenish since Tuesday, and Nat...well. Best to just avoid Nat entirely. And Thor was still incommunicado. Which meant Clint pulled what he liked to call ‘junie duty.’

“What the hell, man?!” Phil hadn’t much liked getting dragged by the scruff down, and Clint didn’t care, dumping his ass unceremoniously onto the floor, settling his weight back and loosening his shoulders. He had his light gear on, and a cup, just in case; the constant weight of Phil’s glances was...unnerving. And a little uncomfortable, too, and well...at this point, he wasn’t putting anything past the boy. That wasn’t a kind thought, but...it was the truth.

“What the hell is goin’ through your head, that you have to destroy our home?” He kept his voice soft and sharp, eyes narrowed, and Phil glared back up at him. Oh, so it was gonna be like that, huh? He had a few tricks up his sleeves as well...and they weren’t just his throwing knives. But really, he was pretty damned pissed off about the kitchen; it was his sanctuary, like the lab was Bruce’s, the shop Tony’s, the greenhouse Nat’s and Steve’s. “Well? Whether you like it or not, this is our place, and we’re letting you stay here.” A sneer twisted the kid’s lips, and Clint’s hackles rose in response.

“Oh yeah, that’s so damn kind of you; here, little guy, let’s show you how to do this, and this, and this, because you’re a kid from the eighties, and you don’t know nothin’ about this fancy technology! Well, y’know what? I’m not fucking stupid! And I wanna go out, I wanna see the city.” Clint sighed a little to himself, wondering if his parents had been this exasperated too; probably not, judging by the way Phil remembered them fondly. This was for authority figures, then, like the police, principals, the like. It was really fucking annoying.

“Tough shit, you can’t. And you know damn good and well why; you signed the paperwork, and I know Hill explained this shit to you.” God, it’s like the kid didn’t listen...Clint knew he’d been explained all of this, at least ten times by now. And he’d been a shit himself at that age, but not nearly this bad. Spoilt, that’s what Fury had called him...

“It’s just a fuckin’ piece of paper. C’mon, it’s been a week, I just wanna go out once!”

“It’s a contract, you little pissant, and we’ve held up our end of the bargain; we got you clothes you like, got you games and books and pretty much unlimited fucking internet. You can go just about anywhere in the Tower if you just ask; hell, Jarvis is even authorized to let you come down to this gym, or the pool, and you can ask for any of us to join you, unless we’re fuckin’ saving the world. Which, y’know, is our full time fucking job, by the way. It’s not fucking easy, and it’s not that damned rewarding.”

“So? Whatever.” Phil stood up and brushed off his jeans, stalking to the other side of the room, and Clint felt his eye start to twitch. Don’t kill your deaged handler, don’t kill your deaged handler... “So, you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna do something?” Oh, this brat was asking for it so fuckin’ bad...

“Oh, I’ll do something. You just won’t like it.” Phil gave him a smirk, and Clint felt his blood heat, just a little; there was something about that expression that transcended age. Because older Phil had done it too...with the same heat in his eyes. He tried to brush it off, tried to pretend it didn’t affect him...and Phil saw right through him, as always. The smile honest to god scared him; it was all teeth and sexy, sexy young masculinity, and Clint felt his knees quiver. He’d made the worst mistake...

“So you brought me down here to have your way with me? Ooh, I think I like that…” He swaggered over, letting his jeans drop a little on his hips, and Clint’s heartbeat sped up, his mouth going dry. Oh, fuck…”Yeah, not every day you get a twink to yourself, is it, big boy?” Phil’s voice dropped too, a low croon that had Clint licking his lips unconciously, and he backed up a step, then two; Phil kept coming, and before he knew it, he was pressed to the wall, and Phil was pressed against him, and those gorgeous lips were hovering just below his. Clint closed his eyes, tried to breathe….and in the span of a second, had Phil spun around and pinned to the ground.

He ignored the yelp as he shifted his grip, grabbing his arms, and ignored too how Phil bucked up against him. His hands shook a little as he secured his arms behind his back with cuffs; even if Phil knew how to slip them at this age, Clint had time to get the hell away...And so he sat the boy on a pile of mats, let himself out of the gym...and locked Phil in, slumping against the door, shaking. He brought his hands up and buried his head in them, fighting the urge to just go back in there...and do what? Screw Phil absolutely senseless? Break a dozen sodomy and pedophilia laws? Yeah, no. He sat there for a long while, listening to the faint yelling from Phil, and just let himself try to calm down; it was all he could do.

“I’m sorry, Phil...I’m so fuckin’ sorry…”

 

* * *

 

Bruce glanced up at where Tony was tinkering with the oven; the fridge was a lost cause, and a new one should be arriving soon, but he was hopeful that the gas range, at least, could be salvaged; the oven itself wasn’t injured, and for that, Bruce was thankful. Clint would have been very unhappy to not be able to bake his casseroles. And by extension, everyone else would have been too. Tony sighed, sat back, and Bruce ambled over, offering him a glass of milk and a plate of cookies; it was his way of treating the mechanic, who rarely, actually, ate any sugary things, and also forcing a little socialization.

Tony took it with surprising grace, in spite of the raised eyebrow, and rested the plate on his workbench. They were simple kitchen sink cookies, made up a couple nights ago when Clint had been silent and pensieve, and while most still sat in the jar upstairs, Bruce had pilfered a few for the shop and his lab.

“So, this Phil is, shockingly, much more annoying than older Phil. I will be very happy when older Phil returns.” He sighed out, sipping his milk...and Jarvis was the one who answered, sounding rather anxious.

“Agent Barton most of all. Sir, I think you need to see this…” A view of the gym’s security footage came up, and both Tony and Bruce zeroed in on it...before Tony swore heavily. It was obvious that Clint had been sent to keep Phil in line, and of course that was a bad idea...because this was a Phil with few, if any, inhibitions, and Clint...they watched the argument, then Phil start stalking up to Clint...and Bruce hissed as the teenager pinned the archer to the wall, though Clint’s hands remained clenched at his sides, and just as they were to kiss, or rather Phil to kiss him...Clint pinned him to the ground, secured him, and got himself out of the situation. Jarvis obliged them with footage from the outside of the door, and while Phil thrashed and swore and yelled, Clint buried his head in his hands and was obviously shaking badly.

“...Fuck.”

“This is going to be a problem; if he’s going to hit on Clint like that, and Clint’s a short fuse on a good day.” Tony glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and Bruce sighed. “I don’t think he’ll do anything like that; it obviously revolts him to even think about, and it’s cruel to just assume he would. But I think we need to consider that he might be pushed past his own control, because this Phil is very, very good at needling in on the most tender spots. I suspect that’s why his older self is so caring…” Tony stared at him, mouth working...and a vicious grin split his lips.

“So, we need to find someone to do the same to him, and put him utterly in his place.” They both shared a long smirk, and came to the solution at the same time.

“Pepper.”


	3. Chapter 3

_You have thirty-one voicemails._

_“Why am I even still alive? I thought...magic was the crap that reduced you to ashes, to nothingness, or to fix things, like in the stories...not...do this. Magic isn’t supposed to do this...Because I don’t wanna be me...I wanna be you.”_

* * *

 

Long, scarred fingers slowly wrapped the soft rubber of the fletching, testing length, width, and flex as Clint hummed softly to the low music playing over his stereo. It was an instrumental piece that fit with his current mood; he didn’t want to think too much about things right now. That’s why the floor of his apartment was littered with arrow shafts, the fletches and heads lined up neatly on his coffee table. The shafts weren’t all usable; a good half of them were shattered mostly from the range, but some held other scars; by his left foot, was one from Sao Paolo. It was the only thing he had left from that mission, and he kept telling himself he’d reuse it, break it down, something…

He never did.

It, like the two from Budapest, the one splintered end from New York, the half-dozen others that came from places a boy from Iowa never should have heard about, they made up nearly a full quiver of broken promises. Lies. Deaths. They were on his conscience just as much as the blood that steeped his skin, and they should have been destroyed. They were evidence, the last remnant of crimes that were all but forgotten, and he could no more obliterate them than he could let the memories go. He remembered. He stood vigil.

But tonight wasn’t a night for those thoughts; it was for himself. The incident this afternoon had shaken the agent to his core; he’d never thought he’d have to fend off an advance like that again. Not from the man...boy...Phil. Never, ever from Phil. The thought made his gorge rise, even now, and the half-fletched arrow shaft clattered to the coffee table’s scratched surface as he braced himself against the cherry wood, breathing in shallowly to keep his nausea at bay, eyes screwed shut. It took him longer than he thought to calm back down, to come even close to the state he’d been in for the last six hours; twenty minutes. Twenty minutes felt like a damn lifetime, when it played out like that.

He couldn’t even find arousal now; he was too sickened to even think of that, even feel the rush in his veins. And after he’d skedaddled to his rooms, locking the doors, the vents...Jarvis had quietly informed him that Steve had let Phil out of the gym, and given him a tongue-lashing of the sort that Fury would have been proud of, and later, much later, that Bruce was leaving him a thermos of soup and the casserole he’d made that morning. Otherwise, he’d been left to his own devices, and that was just the way he liked it, especially in times like this. He’d taken the food gratefully, leaving a simple thank you text for the genius, and since then, he’d been fletching, and when he was done with all of that, he’d replace the string on his bow.

There were robots to do this, of course, and other people, all of whom could do it perfectly well. But Clint had always fletched his own arrows, even the deadly shrapnel and detonation points, because if anyone was going to be harmed, it wasn’t going to be Jack in R&D, with a wife and three kids and a mortgage. The way Clint saw it, he had no real ties, nobody who wanted him outside of work, and no kids. Natasha, of course, would mourn him in her own way; deep in the shards of her broken heart, where no one could steal his memory from her. Hill probably would too, and he knew Jasper would miss him. Tony, Steve, Thor, Bruce….but, to be honest, probably no one else. Phil...

A slim, sad smile touched his lips as mournful flutes filled the air of his apartment; he liked this track, because it reminded him of the skies, the wind, the song of his bowstring...maybe he’d ask Jarvis to have it played at his wake. Something uplifting, even if it wasn’t that fitting for a ragtag bastard like him…

And that’s when the alarms went nuts.

Jarvis had three sound settings that Clint knew of; snarky smartass, affable butler, and HOLY SHIT LOUD. Klaxons blared, echoing throughout the Tower, and Clint stripped off his sweats and yanked on his tactical suit in record time, hissing as zippers caught at his chest hair (that was gonna fuckin’ hurt later), and grabbed Artemis, and his dual quivers. One slung over his back, while the other hung from his hip, and he barreled down to the common room via the stairs, because when the alarms started to go off, all the elevators shut down completely. He had the highest apartment in the Tower, for obvious reasons; just below him sat Natasha’s place, and he met her on the stairs as she finished buckling on her guns, teeth holding her bracelets; he held out a hand and she dropped them in his palm with a mumbled ‘thanks’ before they both pounded down to the common room.

There, Tony had his auxillary displays up and thankfully, finally, turned off the alarms.

It took a moment for the ringing silence to fade, and when it did, Steve was yelling at someone over his phone, blue eyes enraged. He was half-dressed in jeans and and a belt, and not a damn thing else; his shirt hung uselessly from his hand, and judging by the disheveled state of his hair, he’d been dozing on the couch, probably watching the news again...except, Tony was in a similiar state, his shirt still rucked up in the back. Clint felt a very faint grin twitch his lips, and glancing at Tasha, she nodded, smiling so softly and putting a finger to her own. Good...or at least, he thought so, until he heard Steve’s next words.

“...And he escaped, Fury, do you understand that?! He is a seventeen year old Phil Coulson, in a city he has never been in before, and he’s managed to bypass all of the damned security this Tower has to offer! And if you don’t activate his tracking beacon this instant, I will order Tony to do it for us!” He snarled out, and Clint felt his heart drop to the ground floor. Oh...oh fuck...Tony looked grim and motioned for the two of them to come over, his voice low as Steve continued to shout down Fury.

“...Jarvis was running a system wide server check, and somehow, a gap we didn’t know about left the elevators unlocked for two full hours; as soon as he found out, he notified me, and we were trying to get the system back online while he scanned everyone, when he realized Coulson was gone. I am...so fucking pissed at myself right now, and I promise, Barton, we’ll get him back…” Clint swallowed painfully, and felt himself nodding, his mouth dry as ash.

“Y-yeah...yeah, it’s okay, Tony, this shit happens, and he’s...well, he’s not the Coulson we knew.” Tony let out a soft sigh, nodding, even as Steve started to grow considerably more explicit in his threats; Clint could see Natasha actively taking notes with interest.

“...Thanks. I’m still so fucking sorry.”

“This is what your system scans are supposed to do, find shit like this...it’s not your fault he took advantage of it. Ten bucks says he didn’t realize it at first, and only did when he hit the front lobby; from there, it’s teenage stupid taking over. Where’s Bruce?”

“Out helping Johnny and Sue with a project, thank God; the sirens would have sent him-”

“Tony, activate it.” That was Steve now, so pissed his eyes were dark, and Tony hit a button on the interface without question, letting the room fill with a holographic New York that nearly made Clint jump out of his skin; it was so real, so precise...and Tony and Steve were both tracking a blue dot, moving slowly through the traffic. Steve breathed a little quieter now, sheathing his phone in his pocket before running his hands through his hair. “He must be in a cab…”

“He has to be.” Tony growled out, and they all glanced over...then down at the empty wallet in the engineer’s hands. “He stole all the cash and my credit cards. Jarvis, shut down the accounts.”

“Done, sir.” There was a very real anger in the AI’s voice, and Clint gulped a little; Phil was in deep shit now, and nothing he did or said was going to change that. And while for the most part, Clint was equally as pissed; it was one thing to run off, wholly another to steal that much from someone who’d taken you in...he was also worried sick. Because deep down, it was still Phil.

“Guys…”

“We need to get to him quickly, need to shut this down and need to keep it under wraps, for his safety. Tony, suit up; Clint, go get the quinjet ready. Natasha, you’re on point.” There was no point in fighting those orders, and to Clint’s surprise, Steve didn’t gear up like they had, and like Tony was doing now; he pulled on his shirt, and plucked his jacket off the back of the couch. At Clint’s look, he shrugged it on. “...I’m mad, but I’m not going to take it out on him. He’s a brat right now...but he’ll become the man we knew. And loved. Because he did more for us than anyone else. And we owe him that. But I am going to kick this kid’s ass into the next week for this stunt. I’ll take my bike and track him on the ground; I can get him out of trouble and out of attention a lot easier than anyone else.” Clint smiled a little.   
“I won’t stop you, Cap. Let’s just get him home.”

 

* * *

 

Phil was in heaven.

He’d loved Boston, of course, loved exploring, loved the city streets and the suburbs, all of it, from the parks to the trains to everything in between.

But this was New York. This was every East Coast punk’s Mecca, this was the compass so much of the world swung to, and Phil set to working his way deeper into the metropolis that had stood the test of time and the world almost since America’s conception. He’d hailed a cab just out of the Tower, and let the slow traffic drive him into the nightlife; he’d only been hoping to get some air out on the deck of Tony’s tower, which was why he had his Chucks and his jacket on, but for some reason, the elevators hadn’t really obeyed his commands, and before he knew it, he was on the ground floor...and the lure of freedom was too strong to resist. He figured he’d get out, get back in, with plenty of time to spare...after all, it wasn’t like anyone was really interested in being around him right now.

He spared a little bitterness at that, but it was compounded by the shame. And he really did feel bad for how he’d acted towards Clint, especially after Steve had shown him the video of Clint...cowering behind the door, shaking so badly, almost in tears. Natasha had been deadly livid, so silent as to be a ghost, and she’d made it clear, almost as though she were talking to a toddler, how she’d make his waking hours until he came of age so full of hell if he so much as did that again. They were so protective of the man...and Phil might not have been around the block that much, but he knew people who’d gotten hurt like that before. And it was painfully obvious that Clint had, and only his training had kept things from getting out of hand. He couldn’t say he was sorry enough…

But no one had wanted to hear it. And so, he’d been put in his room, by Steve Rogers, no less, and left to sit in silence. Not even the AI had wanted to talk to him; things came on at his request, but there was no kind voice explaining things to him….so, he’d taken his chance. Hell, it wasn’t like he had parents anymore. The thought made him twitch a little, and he swallowed, ignoring the cabby’s curious glance back, and finally motioned to a clear space.

“There, please…” The man shrugged and pulled in, and Phil paid up, all cash, because he wasn’t going to use Tony’s cards unless he had no choice; he’d pay him back, since he did technically have a job still, and he didn’t think his older self would mind too much. He slipped out into the mess of people heading downtown, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he breathed, losing himself in the mass of people. In this, New York was the same as Boston; the same type of people, same type of streets. Little things were different, like the lights and the skyline, but...if you kept your eyes at ground level, it was all the same.

And that’s when the homesickness struck. Hard and fast and brutal; Phil stopped dead when he realized that nothing was the same anymore...nothing at all. The whole world parted around him, a stone in a sea of souls, and grief, anger, fear...they swirled within, chasing away the few good memories of this last week in a haze of sudden, painful rage and desperation...and he took off running now, hard and fast, as only the young ever can. The streets passed in a blur as he wove, dodged, and tore through people; distantly, he heard sirens blaring, heard yells and screams, as though he were a mugger, a thief...and a sob was wrenched from him, eyes blurring with tears.

He wanted to drop to the ground and die...and a part of him, the part that had been growing, slowly, steadily, since the moment he’d found out his parents were dead and gone, promised that he could. And there, before him...he must’ve sped through Steve’s childhood precinct without realizing it, because the Brooklyn Bridge stood beautiful in the night sky, aglow with brilliant white bulbs and the soft hum of traffic. He made it up to the bridge easily enough, and managed to hide from a foot-patrol; it paid to be a skinny guy some days, and before anyone could stop him, he was climbing up onto the massive pylon holding the roadway, one hand clinging to the stone ediface as he stared down at the dark waters.

That feeling rose suddenly, engulfing his senses for moment, and he swayed...and somebody screamed, and voices began to rise as people reached for him, begging him to come back, that it wasn’t worth it, that he was too young to die...and the tears began to fall. It was worth it, it had to be, because he couldn’t do this, couldn’t keep this up anymore; he wasn’t some amazing, James Bond-esque super agent, and he was alone...so alone. He felt the stone slide from his fingers; he must’ve let gravity take over then, because the wind howled suddenly, as he fell like a stone, eyes closing. His last thought, before something hit him like a brick, was, strangely, not of his parents...it was the look on Clint’s face, at once hopeful and afraid, those gray-green eyes so lost...and then there was nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Phil.” He came awake with a groan, head throbbing, whole body one huge ache, and there was a sigh to his left, the creak of the metal chair shifting under Clint’s weight...and Phil felt his heart stop. Long fingers were checking his pulse, the archer’s eyes locked on his watch as Phil, in turn, watched him...and those eyes flickered up to his. His father had once said that eyes were the windows to the soul; if that were true, then Clint’s had the storm shutters closed and the curtains drawn. “...You gave us quite a scare.” There was something too-calm in his words, and Phil swallowed nervously. Something wasn’t right…

“I...I didn’t mean to...I’m so sorry...so, so sorry...I…”

“You panicked.” Two words, and the tension bled out a little bit.

“I...yeah...yeah, I did… I saw the doors, and I thought I’d be back in time…”

“And then your brain hit the backseat as your emotions took over. Mmmhmm, been there, done that. Impressive, that you made it from uptown to Brooklyn; even more so that you made it onto the bridge, and up onto the pylon. Would have been a little more impressive, but the guy who jumped after you nearly dragged you under, and it took three tries to get you out of that water.” There was the thread of anger Phil had been listening for; he flinched a little, and Clint sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair.

“Look. We got off to an awkward start, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to be the one down here. But as it stands, I lead the current ‘attempted suicide’ chart by three tries, so you’re talking to me. Not Nat or Bruce or Steve or Tony; me. And I’ll be blunt, right here and now. You fuck with me, you fuck with my head like that again, and you will not see me till you’re back to normal. I’ll take a mission to fuckin’ Antarctica if it means avoiding that kind of shit. I’ve already had a fucked up life, I do not need a twinkie adding to it. That’s the terms of this agreement, because if you do agree, then we will help you through this. We will buckle down, and find a solution that is mutually beneficial, and you will not be alone. But if you don’t...you’re stuck with a live-in therapist for the next three months. Pick your poison.”

Clint’s voice was hard and a little angry; Phil...really couldn’t blame him for that, and listened, wide-eyed and nodding at each point. Clint sat back at last, eyes still on Phil for the longest time, and held out his hand. “...You outright disrespected the last man who offered his hand to you, and while that pissed me off, here’s your second chance. You gonna do the same to me?” The air hummed between them, the tension was so thick, and Phil closed his eyes, gulped...then opened them, and gave the best handshake he could give, meeting Clint’s eyes.

“No...sir. And...I agree. Just...may I ask a question?” Clint searched his face, quiet.

“...Ask. I’ll decide if I’ll answer.” Phil nodded, and took a long, deep breath.

“...Do you love my older self?” There was a plainative note in his voice now, lost and alone, and Clint’s eyes fluttered shut for the longest moment...but when they opened again, there was a hint of life in those stormy orbs. He really had the most beautiful eyes in the world; so expressive and honest, it seemed impossible that he could hide so brilliant a soul. He searched Phil’s face again, eyes ticking over every inch of him, before there was a short, sharp nod.

No words, just that nod...and Phil felt his heart leap...just as the door opened, and in walked a tall, strawberry blonde woman, her pale skin lightly dotted with freckles, and the creamy softness of her suit soothing the gray walls around them both. She gave Clint a smile; he, in turn, rose from his chair and outright hugged her, grinning more than he had in days.

“Pepper! It’s good to see you…”  
“Good to see you too, Clint. I hate to ask this of you, but can you give me a moment with Phil here?” Now she turned to the teenager, and he felt his heart freeze. The look in her eyes was dangerous; a chilling, venomous glare that left him very, very glad he had something to lean back against.

“Sure...ah. You’re the specialist Tony was talking about.”

“Aw, how sweet of him. Remind me to get him those Cap print boxers to embarrass him on his birthday.”

“Oh, I will. Phil...” Clint turned to him now, and there was some sympathy in those eyes...but also a very real satisfaction. And for once, Phil had no one to blame but himself. “This is Pepper Potts. She’s the CEO of Stark Industries, and Tony’s former nanny. And she’s going to give you the sit down talking-to that we can’t. I don’t have the emotional resources; neither does anyone else in this Tower. Which is why we relied on you so much, and in turn, on Pep. Now, I’m going to go start supper; Pepper, we’re having lasagna tonight, you’re welcome to join us.”

“...I’d really like that, Clint, thank you. We won’t be long.” Clint only smiled and left, and Pepper turned her gaze on Phil. He gulped.

“...In all honesty, Phillip Coulson, I can understand why you’ve done the things you’ve done this last week. I can even get with the heavy flirting; Clint’s a gorgeous guy, and he doesn’t know it half the time. But what I can’t get with is the wanton destruction of the Tower...and the unwelcome advances. I presume you’ve seen the video?” He nodded, smart enough to know now that talking would just be stupid. She gave him a slim smile at that, and laid out a heavy, dog-earred file on his lap.

“You’re going to start with Clint, and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll have read every single thing in every single file on the Avengers. And you’re going to fix your messes during the day, and understand these people by night. Because they are not perfect by a long stretch. They are not blessed with loving parents and a family that cares. They were all orphans, the ones of Earth. They were abandoned, abused, forgotten. They were used as propaganda and marketing, they were used as weapons, and as toys. Each one of them has a scar, somewhere, of a wound that was so nearly fatal, the line’s still blurry. And you will grow to love them as fiercely as I have.”

His hands shook a little as he very, very carefully opened the first page...and one slim, manicured hand closed it, pausing him. He looked down in shame.

“But first, you will apologize. To each and every single one of them. And you will eat lasagna and watch us play cards or watch movies or play Apples to Apples while we update Steve on pop culture. And then, when the night is growing long...you will take a moment for yourself, and you will remember. Your parents, your life before this. Because that is important too. Yes, your family is gone...but the lessons they left you with, the strength and love they’ve given you, that remains, Phil. But seventeen’s a hard age to see that; I know it was for me. It was for Tony, and for Bruce. For Clint, Steve, Natasha...those three, I don’t know as much, and maybe, some day, they’ll tell me. Or tell you. Or perhaps, in that mind of yours, you already know…” Her eyes softened now, and she cupped his chin, raising his own, downcast and fogged with sorrow. Not grief, or rather, not so much; it was still there, but Pepper...she was right. She was so right. He’d drowned himself in the pain...but he was hurting, too…

“And this is even harder, knowing the life you thought you had is gone. And you’d be insane not to be angry, be hurt...but be angry at the right person. Ask any of them, and they’ll tell you they’re trying to find that caster, and with luck, they’ll find him or her, give them a thrashin’ of the sort that’d make my pa proud, and lock them in the Vault. But don’t be angry at them, especially not for this. Because if I recall correctly from the mission report, Clint saved you from falling when you transformed…” Oh. Oh...Phil nodded, very quiet, and wet his lips.

“Will...will you help me?” She was a busy woman, had to be, she was CEO for crying out loud…

“You bet I will.” The determination warmed his heart, brought a spark of hope up through the mire of sorrow and shame...He blinked, looking up at her now, and something...stirred inside him. Not arousal, god no, she was too intimidating and too damn out of his league and he was gayer than gay...no, it was...a memory?

”...Miss Potts?”

“Come with me, Agent Coulson.”

...A warehouse, a massive reactor, the Arc Reactor...and a hulking, dangerous shadow behind chains…Pepper’s scream, and gunfire…Stane, he had a suit of his own, but where had he found the miniature reactor? Phil’s mind jumped to the most logical conclusion, and his body took over while his mind reeled with shock. Tony Stark...was dead.  He snapped back to himself, eyes wide, and Pepper was watching him, concern overriding her earlier anger.

“Phil?”

“I...remember you...the reactor...and...Obadiah Stane…” He whispered, so softly...but her eyes went wide, and she fumbled for her cell phone.

“...c’mon, c’mon...Stephen? I need you at the Tower. Phil’s remembering me. And we only just met again.”

 

* * *

 

_You have twenty-eight voicemails._

_“...Marry Barton, for Chrissakes, he’s the best fucking cook alive. Seriously. Get on this, you asshole.”_

 

* * *

 

Dinner was a supremely subdued affair; Tony wasn’t quite sure what to make of Stephen Strange eating Clint’s Best Damn Lasagna Ever and garlic bread while examining a seventeen-year-old Phil Coulson for magical interference. Tony was leaning against the bar next to Pepper; someone had broken out the beer, and he’d stolen one by proxy; his fucking Tower, his booze. It was good, too, and he took a long draught, chasing it with creamy pasta.

“Well, this is gonna put a damper on Christmas.”

“Tony, you are horrible.”

“And you dated me.”

“I was clearly out of my mind at the time.”

“Most people are.” Steve was on the other side of the bar from them, working his way through his third plate as Clint took the second batch out of the oven. Tony flashed him a grin, almost wanting to make a joke, but a glance at Steve’s eyes told him no, now wasn’t the time. Pepper simply rolled her eyes and mouthed ‘about time’ to him. He flipped her off with a smirk as Stephen sat back, turning back to his food.

“...Well, despite your considerable alarm, my dear ladies and sirs, Phil is perfectly fine. But I am glad to see you’re gaining those memories back; they’re not going to be easy, and they’ll be very disorienting, but it will grow easier.” Stephen gave him a warm smile, and Phil nodded, still pale and eating only a little at a time; Stephen’s eyes softened. “And so will the healing. Would...you like to talk about it?” He swallowed a mouthful of lasagna, and slowly, quietly shook his head.

“Not...not tonight. Please.”

“...Fair enough. Clint, this is fantastic.” The archer’s big form came into the living room, grinning as he carried his own plate, and Tony noticed how Phil distracted himself quite thoroughly by watching him from under his eyelashes. Clint looked fantastic in tight jeans and a dark gray tee-shirt; the white apron was just a delicious addition. Tony was bi enough to admit that to himself, even if Clint wasn’t quite his type, and wise enough to keep it that way. Clint went and settled down in the closest armchair and dug in; Natasha had taken her plate and a cushion to relax by the window, her guns laid out in pieces before her, while Bruce was working on his theories, papers scattered over the big middle island in the kitchen. It was, normally, pretty comfortable...but there was an air of...something. And it wasn’t Strange. Tony sighed a little bit as Clint and Stephen talked ingredients and food, and zeroed in on Pepper, keeping his voice low and gentle.

“Pep, what is this going to mean over the next few months?” Her green eyes were pensieve, and Tony waited her out, filling the silence between them with food and beer. Steve was listening, of course, but then, Steve was always listening; it had bothered Tony a lot at first, but now...it seemed...comfortable. Relaxing. Something that he was kinda used to now...especially lately. Finally, Pepper sighed.

“...That we’ll have a very disoriented, probably self-destructive teenager in our midst. Can’t be any worse than Reed Richards on a drunken science bender. And you and Bruce vowing to beat him at it.” He winced at that, and deservedly so; that night...had not gone well. At all. Pepper still wouldn’t let him live it down. Steve’s chuckle made him grumble a bit, and he mopped up his plate with the savory garlic bread as she continued. “In all honesty, it might be a good idea to talk to some of the resident therapists with SHIELD, and maybe someone from Xavior’s school?” That...had some merit. If nothing else, Charles was definitely used to teenagers.

“That’s a good idea, actually. I’ll see what Stephen suggests, too…”

“...Is this cooperation with a magician?”

“Rogers, shut up.”

“God no, this is a breakthrough.”

“...No respect. No respect at all.”

“Nope, not a bit of it.” Pepper’s eyes twinkled as Steve very clearly typed out ‘cooperation with magic’ on his little tablet list of ‘Things Tony has successfully done’, and Tony contemplated hacking the device from his phone. But that’d make Jarvis annoyed, and Steve upset….and of those two things, the latter would bother him more.

“Fine, I see how it is.” He grumbled a little, but shared a faint smile with her; it was nice to see her so relaxed. “...How are things with you and Rhodey?” She blinked, and he nudged her elbow, grinning. “C’mon, I’m clueless, but I’m not dead.” She blushed and smiled, and he had the joy of seeing her really look happy...and that hadn’t happened in a long time.

“...They’re good. They’re really, really good...and you’re a sneak, Mr. Stark.” He smirked and winked, and she laughed...and things were good.

For now, things were good.

 

* * *

 

Dark green eyes lifted, following the mocking illusion from behind, listening as his image-self taunted the guards, the other inmates, everyone...Loki’s eyes closed, and he took a shallow breath. All had changed with Mother’s...Frigga’s...Mama’s death. He swallowed back the latest tears, but to no avail; they trickled down his cheeks, burning hot trails through the blood and grime. He hadn’t bathed, hadn’t tended his cut foot and battered bruises...and he could. But he hadn’t moved from the spot she’d last stood in three weeks, and he had little desire to do so now. He ignored the illusion’s voice as he buried his head in his hands…

“Loki.” His head shot up, and Loki stared at Thor...his brother...who was watching him, not the illusion. Who was seeing him now, in all his loss and pain. Who had the greatest sorrow in his eyes too…”May I come in?” He blinked, entiredly confused.

“...You...are in charge of the guards. You may enter any cell.”

“Perhaps. But I prefer to ask. May I?” He really had no other answer for that, and simply nodded, shoulders dropping a little as he leaned back against the wall. Thor slipped through the energy wall with a twist of his hand and a flare of a rune; he sidestepped each broken pot and glass, careful not to crush the shards so they became too fine to avoid. And then he was kneeling before Loki, lifting his injured foot so carefully, pausing when the mage gasped weakly.

“What...what are you…?”  
“Mother would not wish to see you in this state. She...would not wish to see you here at all. But what is done, is done. And I have loved you too deeply to wish any more pain on you.”

“But...for nearly a fortnight…”

“I know. That...is Odin’s doing. Not mine own. I’ve fought all this time to even be allowed to see you...and to see your illusion taunting all who pass...I was quite surprised to see how hurt you were, to be honest.”

“...You see the real me now.” It wasn’t a question, and Thor only nodded, cleansing the wound with a rag from his belt and soothing a healing paste over it. “You...see past the illusions…”

“It is the trick of turning your eye; I never could learn it as a child, but I have...learned it now. I am sorry that you suffered for all those years...I am sorry that I was not a better brother.”

“...You’ve always been a good brother, Thor. A bad friend, once, but a good brother.” Loki murmured, watching the golden-haired god bandage him. It forcibly reminded him of the past, so distant, and yet not, of a cut foot and tears, and the gentleness and love of his older brother. Thor only smiled softly.

“Still, I have hurt you. With words and foolishness, with loneliness and loss. Can I ever ask your forgiveness?” Loki sighed, soft and tired, so weary; he’d been here far too long to have rested.

“...’Tis I who should ask it of you.”

“...Loki…”

“Amora is using my likeness to attack your friends. I believe she’s bespelled the agent, Son of Coul?” Thor froze, blue eyes darting up, and Loki looked immeasurably sad, his dark eyes bloodshot and heavy. “I was angry, hurting, afraid...and she is so comforting at times. And like the fool I’ve always been, she wrapped me around her fingers. She has much of my stolen power still, and I am too weak to do more than cast seemings like that.” He motioned to the illusion, and Thor rumbled angrily.

“She will be brought to justice. I promise.”  
“You had best find her then; I believe she is deciding on the hawk-eyed one next.”

 

* * *

 

Supper wasn’t too much to clean up once Bruce tackled half the dishes; Clint left the rest to soak off and hung up his apron, toodling around the kitchen. Cooking was one of his few real prides, outside of archery, and he could cook or create just about anything, with enough time and patience. And both, he usually had ample amounts of. He had a whole book of recipes that were his own now, and it usually sat by his knives, protected from the spray of water. But for some reason, it was moved tonight, and he sighed, walking through the darkening kitchen. Jarvis was lowering the lights like usual; it was movie night, and Natasha and Pepper were sitting with Phil, keeping him occupied and probably terrified.

Clint almost smiled, but thought better of it. It wasn’t really fair that Phil was in so much trouble that he’d been put on study-duty, but then again...well. Clint was far too close to the situation to try and even dig out the current quagmire. That’s why when the papers of his recipe book fluttered a little bit, he just chalked it up to the sudden rise of the air conditioning. It wasn’t abnormal, after all, for Tony to turn it up just a hair when they all settled down under their blankets, and he settled the book back, rubbing his hand on his jeans as he yawned to himself. He was suddenly tired...but then again, he’d had a long, long night, and he was more than ready for a day of rest...The air gushed over the back of his neck and he grumbled a little, shivering.

“Jarvis, turn it up a hair?” There was no answer, and the cold swathed over him, really annoying him now. “Jarvis, c’mon…”

“Jarvis can’t hear you, Agent Barton.” He froze, the cold air swirling and misting now in the kitchen as that voice...that voice. He tried to turn, tried to reach for the knife on his calf...and Loki’s cold fingers stroked over his neck. “No, no, no…I don’t let my toys go that easily.” Frozen blue clouded the corners of his vision, and he wanted to scream, wanted to run away…Wanted to fight. He never had a chance.

“Yes, sir……

 

* * *

 

“Ah...ahhh……..AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The sound of his own screams brought him out of the darkness, and the lights came on, bright, too bright, but they chased away the last of the bluish nightmare…He was soaked in sweat, his undershirt and boxers clinging to him, and the room was oddly cold...  
“Agent?” Jarvis’s voice, that blessed accent, sounded from the ceiling, and Clint raised a shaking hand to his eyes, swallowing his rising gorge.

“Jarvis, can...can you warm it up in here? Please?”

“Of course.” He glanced over at the window, where the temperature gauge slowly rose, in nice, big letters, a soothing purple. They stopped at seventy-eight, and he relaxed a little, the warmth easing the cold inside him.

“Thanks...um...leave...leave the lights low, okay?”

“...Of course, sir. Rest easy; none shall harm you within these walls.” He kept his thoughts to himself, and laid back down; sleep wouldn’t come back to him, not tonight, but the rest would help. And maybe tomorrow...he’d forget for just a little while.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! We've had scheduling problems with work and I've been pulling a lot of overtime, plus keeping the lady who loves me sane while she does her term abroad, sorting out my life, and recouping from the sudden slam of medical bills. That, and I still don't have internet. So there's that. But I hope this one's just as good as the rest for you all! It was a labor of love, that's for sure!

_You have twenty-six voicemails._

_“Something’s wrong with Clint. No one else believes me, but...I’m reading through your notes, your files...our files. And I’m gonna trust our gut on this one.”_

 

* * *

 

Phil closed the file on Thor; it was the smallest of all of them, and the fourth one he'd finished, and rubbed his eyes, fluffing up his hair. He needed a hair cut, but...He’d cringed a little to see the slight balding in his older self’s photograph, but...well, Mom had always said he’d end up looking like his Dad. And he did, with a slimmer jaw and a little bit taller, but he did...And that’s when he noticed Clint in the kitchen. He shuffled the files, hiding Clint's; he wasn't technically supposed to take them out of his room, but he didn't think he'd care all that much, it's not like Clint hadn't read all of them himself. But still, just to be safe; the sniper moved like the wind, and was just as silent.

“Hungry, Coulson?” He’d reverted back to last names last night, when he’d come back in from the kitchen, his manner cool and surprisingly calm; Natasha hadn’t even blinked, almost as though she were expecting it, and had simply gone back to walking him through the Russian in her own file. Pepper was busy with her own paperwork, and Tony, Steve, and Bruce were talking, low-voiced, over plans in case Doom made good on yet another threat to the city. Clint, however, took a seat in the armchair at the edge of the circle and stayed there till the movie was over.

He’d vanished with the shadows at bed time, and Phil studied him now, wondering just where he’d gone. Probably down to the range, or back to his rooms; Clint had the highest rooms in the Tower, partly because of his particular skillset, and partly too for his comfort. Tony had placed his teammates’ and friends’ comfort at the top of his list, and he’d ensured that Clint had a haven in the very clouds themselves. And from what Natasha had said, it was inaccessable by anyone but the Avengers...

“Yeah, what’re you gonna make?” He turned his attention back to the man’s back, spiky brown-blonde hair kinda flat for a change. But not so surprising, really; he didn’t fluff up his hair usually when he was just hanging around the common areas, didn’t really do up much more than pull on a couple of rings and his bracelets. Oddly enough, though, he must’ve left those up in his room, because his arms and fingers were bare, just as tan and ropy and hot as usual.

“Probably just pancakes.”

“Sounds good…” Clint never once turned around while he made the food, and Phil gave up trying to study him for the time being; he’d always been better with faces than bodies, if he was being honest with himself. And...if Clint was being quiet, he’d since learned from Natasha and Steve that nothing anyone said or did would change that. So, he curled back up in his armchair and reopened the file, scanning over the meager documents, trying to ignore the delicious smell of pancakes and bacon frying. His stomach growled softly, and he rubbed it with the heel of his hand, hoping Clint didn’t hear…

“Hungry?” He glanced up, startled, eyes wide, at the smiling archer’s face; Clint had managed to sneak right up in front of him, holding out a plate of food that looked fucking incredible...and Phil’s earlier worries were cast aside. His stomach growled, and he took it with a grin.

“Oh, thanks!” He grinned and took the plate, mouth watering as he set the file aside. Clint’s eyes followed it, but he only raised an eyebrow in question. Phil just shrugged. “Pepper has me doing homework on all of you, so I started with Thor.”

“Easiest?”

“That, and I’m not allowed to look at them when everyone is around, it’s only fair that way. But since Thor’s still in Asgard…”

“Not for too much longer. I got word that he’s headed back our way.” Clint took up his own plate and plopped down in the opposite armchair, his eyes dancing, just a little. “So, he’ll be a little surprised to see you as you are.” Phil grinned a little bit and dug in, all but moaning as the pancakes melted in his mouth.   
“Holy shit, these are fucking amazing…”

“Heh. Good to know I’ve still got my touch. You’re cute like that.” Phil blinked, then blushed; Clint just winked and gave him a wily grin, eyes crinkling just a little. His misgivings forgotten, Phil almost allowed himself to flirt back...but...no. He grinned to himself, and decided to play coy. If Clint wanted him, Clint was gonna have to come to him. He laid the file aside and finished his meal, with the archer a close second; Clint set his plate aside and stretched, those delicious arms straining the black tee shirt. Phil bit back a groan.

“Well, I’m off to the range; later, Coulson.”

“What about the dishes?”

“You’re a big boy; you can do them for me, after the last coupla days.” He winced a little and the older man stood, sauntering off. “It’s the least you can do for my feeding your ass, cute though it may be. Go on, get to work; I’ve got targets to pincushion.” He sauntered off, ass in tight black jeans, and Phil sighed longingly...then turned back to the dishes. It didn’t take long to clean up and put the griddle away; he glanced back up at the clock, surprised by the half-hour mark already ticking past. He didn’t have much more he had to do today, though, and he figured it was time he headed down to the gym. Steve had been pushing for him to learn how to fight; proper fighting, that is. Not his usual scuffling...he stopped in his room for a quick moment, changing into shorts and a tee shirt, then headed back to the elevator.

Stark’s Sirius station always played a variety of the hits, ranging from the twenties all the way up to stuff that came out just the week before, and he rather enjoyed the selection today, soft jazz that melded into softer symphonic music. It was all mostly instrumental, except when Tony was in a mood, and even then, it was rarely offensive...so long as no one got offended by AC/DC. If they did, they got kicked out. Which was why Rhodey just rolled his eyes most of the time. Phil, however, rather liked it, and he was air drumming, head banging a little to Highway to Hell, singing softly under his breath...when the elevator doors opened to the gym level.

He startled a little, jumping back, because Steve usually waited for him right at the door. But there was not a soul to be seen, and Phil edged his way into the hall, a little worried; Steve had warned him the first night he’d arrived that if anything deviated from routine, and he knew for a fact that the Avengers weren’t on a call...he was to be as careful as possible, and to seek out their last known area. So, he headed to Steve’s preferred gym, the lower level bricked and beautifully reproduced, and tred lightly, listening...there. There was a groan, soft and almost...he peeked into the gymnasium proper, and felt his eyes go wide. Steve and Tony...Steve...Captain America…

Was kissing Tony Stark like his life depended on it. And Tony was almost entirely wrapped around Steve, greasy fingers threading through perfect blonde hair. Phil couldn’t help but stare as Cap’s big hands carefully pushed up the engineer’s shirt, one resting on his belly as their hips ground slowly together...and then Steve’s head popped up with a curse, and Phil realized he’d set foot on the mat, the soft crinkle resounding in the big room. He froze in place, and Steve sat up on his knees with a groan.

“Might as well come out, Phil, we heard you.” That was Tony, still flat on his back and waving now.

“I...I’m sorry…”

“Not your fault, I tempted the good Captain.” There was a snort from Steve, and Tony sat up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow. “Fine, you tempted me.”

“You straddled me when I was on the weight bench.”

“It was extremely tempting.”

“So I gathered. Alright, I’m sorry, Phil, didn’t mean to get distracted.” Phil shook his head, feeling more than a little nervous.

“...I can leave you guys alone.”

“Nah, I’ll jump him later. You guys have some good manly bonding time, I’m gonna go bother Bruce.” Steve groaned at that, standing up and straightening his clothes; he made it look effortless, and Phil wished he was that cool.

“Please do not poke him again.”

“No guarantees, red, white, and gorgeous.”

“....Don’t call me that.”

“Hell no, there’s too many good jokes.”

“You are such an asshole, Tony.”

“And you love it. Bye, Phil.” Tony got himself all the way upright and sauntered out, grinning all the while as he shoved his shirt down and picked up his shoes. Phil swallowed a little, and slowly came over to where Steve was standing, looking entirely too bemused by the whole situation. Phil blushed again, deeper now, and averted his eyes as Steve put his fallen weights away, the captain just chuckling now. His hair was still streaky and ruffled, rather cute, and Phil bit his lip, earning himself a laugh from his mentor and idol.

“It’s alright, Phil, come here. We’re not mad or anything like that.”

“I...I know sir…”

“Phil.” Steve came over, his eyes warm, lips quirked in a sweet smile, and Phil felt seven, not seventeen as the older man knelt before him. “Just Steve. That’s all I am these days. That’s all I’ve ever really been. Steve Rogers. I’m still Captain America, true, but deep down...I’m just Steve.” Phil swallowed a little, blushing still, and he smiled.

“All...Alright, Steve. So, um, still up to sparring?” He almost hated himself for the hopeful note in his voice, and Steve beamed.

“Sure! But just to warn you, I’ll be going a little harder on you now. I think you’re due for a bit of challenge.”

“Sounds good to me.”

 

* * *

 

_Draw. Nock. Release._

Clint breathed in the cool air of the indoor range, and watched as another arrow thudded home in the target...four hundred yards away. He smiled, just a little, and adjusted his sunglasses, then drew another arrow. Most of the stress, as always, melted away as he settled into his zone, and he felt all the tension from the last few weeks just...fade into the calmness. He’d been shooting for nearly three hours, since he’d gotten up; Jarvis hadn’t said anything yet, so Clint shrugged his shoulders back and figured that Steve had Phil under control. It was peaceful down here, and he had precious little of that these days…

_Draw. Nock. Release._

He’d have to go gather up his arrows soon, but for now...for now, he still had his hip quiver, and he switched hands, grinning a little, remembering the first time he’d shown Phil and Natasha both that he was ambidextrous. Her look of utter surprise, and Phil’s of wicked delight, still tickled him pink, and Clint relished the burn that always came. It reminded him that he was alive, that he was whole and human and...he sank into the rhythm, into the song of the bowstring and the wind off the arrow. He could faintly smell the spicy mustard that was probably deliciously drenching his sandwich on the table, the crisp lettuce, tomato, onion, and thinly sliced ham and cheddar cheese almost mouthwatering. And on delicious whole wheat, too. He’d made up two of them when he’d woken up and slipped into his sanctuary this morning...

_Draw. Nock. Release._

“What a handsome man you are…” He squawked and the arrow flew off into the depths of the ceiling, clanging somewhere a few hundred yards away, and he spun, his last arrow nocked on his bow...aimed right at the seductive woman in the long green dress...the Asgardian styled dress. Her hair was spun gold, eyes a tantalizing blue, and damn, she was pretty...pretty like poison, like the Black Widow on a hunt. He swallowed and drew the string back a little more; she just giggled. Fuck. “What a handsome man indeed…Loki was right to want you under his spell. Pity that fool has found his honor again...we could have had so much fun with you, archer boy…” _Loki? Oh, fuckity fuck...wait...Thor said something about one of Loki’s former lovers...Amora?_

“The fuck are you? Some fuckin’ freaky chick with a screwed up Norse God kink?” He snarled back, and she gave a tinkling little laugh, perching herself on one of the crates Tasha usually relaxed on. Clint resolved to burn it as soon as he shot her ass. She just smirked at him again and gave a flick of her fingers, brilliant green light twirling around him, and with a bitten off curse, he fired as the world went dark. Her scream of pain was the only thing he heard before he went under, and he smiled faintly before it took him. Take that, you snaky bitch….wait...oh, fuck.

 

* * *

 

Phil grinned as he did another flip, and Steve was smiling widely as well, nodding his head as Phil crouched down to rub his legs. The super soldier brought over their water bottles and invited him to settle down on the mats, Steve cross-legged, Phil, his legs stretched out.

“You’re really doing well, Phil, I’m glad. You’re picking up the gymnastics a lot easier than most of the other Avengers.”

“Except Clint, of course.” Steve chuckled at that and ruffled his hair, ignoring the face Phil made before taking another sip of his water.  
“Hell, Clint’s taught me a few tricks. More than that, he’s taught all of us a few. He’s a good man…”

“...He is. I don’t know how it is that we met, when I was older, but...it must have made a hell of an impression. I...I’ll be honest, Cap, I’ve never really been close to a lot of people. Never...really had that chance to be. And Clint...I feel like he’s been a part of my life for...for forever.”

“...In a way, he has been. You found him, you brought him back...you saved him. And he saved you in return. Each a hundred times over, and now, well...he did it because you mean the world to him.” Phil looked startled, and Steve laughed gently.

“I might be ninety-five, Phil, but I’m not that blind. Also, my dear student, it was painfully obvious you two were pining for one another.”

“Oh god, it was that bad?”

“There’s a running pot in SHIELD about your first date with him and A) how it starts, B) how it ends.”

“....Christ on a cracker.” Steve raised an eyebrow and lightly cuffed his ear, not enough to really hurt him, but even then, Phil was rubbing his ear, grumbling.

“Don’t blaspheme. And I’ve known it since New York. Tony didn’t see it till after, Bruce I think guessed when I did…”

“...And Natasha’s just waiting to cash in.”

“She does have a pretty hefty stake.”

“Does Thor know?”

“I don’t think so, he’s not familiar with Clint as much as we all are, just because of Asgard’s issues. But right now, I’m less worried about all of that and more that something in the magic might be pushing you to push him into something that neither one of you is ready for.”

“...No, I can safely say I was this horny. I...okay, this is going to sound weird, but I think that I’m...mentally aging a little? Does that help? I remember being a teenager, being exactly like this, the only difference being that I’m in the future of my grown up self.” Steve gazed at him, expression odd, and Phil sighed. “...That came out all weird as hell, didn’t it?”

“Nah, you’re just trying to put words to it, Phil.” He grinned gently and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hugging him for a moment. Phil melted into it; Cap’s hugs were like the best kind of blanket, and they soothed even the worst feelings, because Steve was just so damn gentle. As he cuddled up shamelessly, Steve chuckled and leaned back against the extra rolled mats, one hand coming up to ruffle Phil’s hair. He all but purred, leaning heavily into the pets and the warm, kind super soldier. A part of him was excited as all hell; the rest was just...happy that someone understood. Better still, someone who was just as lost in the future as he was. That...that helped.

“You know, having you like this makes me want to adopt.” Phil laughed softly.

“Tony’ll never allow it.”

“Phil, you underestimate me.”

“Just stating the opposition, Cap.”

 

* * *

 

If Tony and Bruce both hadn’t seen it, they neither one never would have believed it; there was a child on the damn shooting range. And not just a child-child; like, a damn toddler. The little one was playing with the large bow, and Hawkeye’s normally skin-tight black tee shirt hung loose over the kid’s body, the neckline and arms all but swallowing the little...boy? As he picked himself back up to toddle over to the workbench, and the sandwich sitting on it, flashing the cameras, Tony bit back a groan and covered his eyes with a hand; yup, that was a boy. Which meant...He shared a glance with Bruce, who then slammed the alarm, and texted Stephen Strange. There was more fuckin’ magic loose in his tower, and now they’d lost Clint to it as well.

 

* * *

 

Steve had just helped Phil back up from another round of learning how to properly fist fight, when the alarms blared back to life, and Phil yelped. They were...certainly something he’d never really heard before, a mix between a fire engine’s doppler wail and a clanging, headache-inducing klaxon bellow. The door to the gym slammed open, and Natasha darted in, her fists wrapped from her own training, her tracksuit dark with sweat as she grabbed Phil, drawing him close and giving him a quick onceover.

“Steve, Tony wants him in the safe room! Something’s gone down inside the range.”

“Clint?!”

“I don’t know.” And her green eyes almost looked...broken for a moment, but she took a breath and she was back to them, though she didn’t push off Steve’s gentle hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is that Phil could be in danger too, and I’m not risking him. Clint can take care of himself.” Steve nodded, once and sharp, and to Phil’s shock, yanked his shield from behind the extra mats...and to his even greater shock, handed it to Natasha, who adjusted the straps, then slid it onto her left arm.

“Take that, and get to the safe room. Stay with him.”

“I wasn’t going to leave. Can you get me my suit and bracelets, though, if you can?” Steve’s eyes warmed and he squeezed her shoulder gently, nodding, already striding to the door to poke his head out, assessing the situation. Phil could hear distant yells above his head, over the alarms, and swallowed, feeling himself start to shake. Yeah, this was not what he’d pictured when he thought about a battle...but then again, when had the Avengers been attacked inside their own home? Natasha’s hand slipped down and instead of clutching his hand painfully, she twined her fingers with his left hand, gently squeezing. He very nearly jerked away, but looking into her eyes...he felt the anxiety lift, just a hair, and he gave her a tiny smile. She smiled back, surprisingly shy.

“You have to listen to me, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Alright, this way.” She led him to the back of the gym, shield in front of her, and they slipped into the dark hallway, the red flashing lights their only guide. It was a service path, that was obvious enough to see, and one not used that often; Natasha, however, seemed to know every twist and turn, and led them true...until they got to the stairwell to head down. She let go of his hand for a moment to key in the door code, and something long and hard lashed out of the darkness next to the door, felling her without a sound. The shield bounced off of her arm and Phil scrambled for it, but the broom handle smashed into his hand, then took an abrupt turn and caught his chin, snapping his head back and tossing him onto the floor.

He howled in pain, clutching his swelling, broken fingers to his chest, his eyes hazy with pain, and tried to crab-shuffle back on one hand, staring up at their adversary...and feeling his gorge rise. It was Clint, but a Clint...different. Dark armor crossed over his body, and his eyes...his eyes were green. This wasn’t Clint, couldn’t be Clint Barton...and as the apparition tossed the broom aside, Phil screamed again, hoping someone, anyone, would hear him. The monster before him gave a cruel laugh, a dark facsimile of Clint’s deep, midwestern chuckle, and waved his fingers, dark green light pulsing between them.

“You were so easy to fool this morning, you know? So easy to toy with, and even easier to break. Your beloved archer was...less so.” The voice shifted as Clint-monster grimaced, and some of the illusion broke, leaving an elegant blonde woman in black armor...her right eye ravaged by an arrow. She had to have broken off the shaft, because only a little bit protruded from her eye socket, and she hissed at him now, her honey voice somehow cutting through the alarms still blaring, and leaving a poison in its wake.

“Oh yes, he thought to kill me...thought that scarring me once more would stop me. And now I see my folly; I should have slit your throat that day on the roof...and then torn him limb from limb.” Phil felt the shock roll through him, and the memories of that day slammed home with a vengence, and the next scream he gave was from the anguish, the fight with what they’d thought was Loki, Clint’s arrows, his own gunshots...the blast of the same green power that had transformed him thirty years younger...and now...Clint…

“You bitch!” He snarled, rage overcoming the pain, fear falling in the grief, and he rose and swung at her, teeth grit as she dodged back with a laugh. They danced in deadly blows, though she landed far more on him than he did on her, and not ten, fifteen minutes in, he was flagging and bruised all over. He stumbled when she lashed out at him a final time, and he fell hard, screaming as he landed on his bad hand. She stood over him, eyes glowing with rage and hatred as her green light forged into a sword..and that’s.when the blonde woman’s head snapped back and she crumpled at his feet, Natasha standing over her, her own green eyes alight with anger...Steve’s shield pinning the sorceress to the floor.

“Amora…” She spat out the name and Phil swallowed, staring at her...then Natasha’s pale hand was right there, her left one, offering to help him up. He took it gratefully, cradling his right to his chest. Just then, the alarms finally died, and Tony’s face lit up the small screen just over the door. Phil wanted to kill him, and judging by the glare on Natasha’s face, she was going to.

“Fuck, you guys okay? Steve said you didn’t make it to the safe-”

“We got ambushed, and took out the Enchantress.” A long-fingered hand shoved Tony’s head out of the camera, and Stephen’s face appeared, clearly struggling to keep Tony down.

“I’ll be right there, Natasha! Are either of you hurt?”

“Phil’s got a few broken fingers and bruises, I’m just peachy.”

“...yeah, I’ll be right there.” He vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving Tony to cough, annoyed.

“Sending Wilson down to help you both out with her, Steve too. Oh, and we found Clint...but Tasha, don’t kill Amora.”

“...Is he…?”

“He’s alive, healthy...and four.” Phil’s eyes went wide, and Natasha groaned.

“...Well, fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

* * *

 

_You have twenty-three voicemails._

_“...So, now there’s a four year old Clint Barton loose in the Tower. God help us all.”_

 

* * *

 

Healing his fingers hadn’t taken more than a flash of pain and a moment of warm magic sealing the fractured bones back into place; he could move them easily ten minutes after, and he breathed a sigh of relief when they locked Amora into the special cell that negated magic use, with an extra barrier courtesy of Stephen. The bruises on his face and jawline would take longer to heal, simply because they weren’t anything threatening. Only Steve had come down to the cells, however; he said that “Sam was busy,” and Natasha had just snorted and hit the elevator. Tony, for his part, was hip deep in Jarvis’s main circuits after this incident, with the super computer apologizing left and right. Amora’s repeated, insidious attacks on his system had left him extremely vulnerable, and Tony was already going to be working long into the night, Bruce at his side. Natasha chose to go help them when they’d arrived back on the common floor, because when she’d stepped out of the elevator, there was a tiny blond boy staring up at her, still wrapped in a tee shirt with a purple chevron on it, his arms clutching a small stuffed dog, clearly beaten up and well-loved already.

She swallowed, quite visibly, and those blue, baby blue eyes were so solemn as he chewed on one ear...and she turned on her heel and went right back into the elevator, leaving Phil to stare down at him instead. The little boy’s eyes grew watery with tears, and a tiny sniffle sounded, but nothing else; Phil gulped at that. Okay, a crying kid, not good...not good at all...and suddenly, a tall man with close-cropped black hair and a black goatee and mustache came over, offering his dark hands to him. Clint’s face split into joy and he flung himself up into the other man’s arms, hugging his neck with one skinny arm while the other held his dog, while the Falcon laughed and cuddled him close, rocking him.   
“Hey little man, it’s okay…”

“But, Sam...I not know him!” Sam only smiled, and gently touched his cheek, pointing to Phil.

“Actually, you do know him, buddy. That’s Phil. Do you remember Phil?” The little boy blinked, cocking his head just a little bit...and a big, adorable grin split his face. It was almost a punch in the gut, how absolutely innocent and sweet that little one looked, and Phil gulped down the sudden lump in his throat. This was...Clint...before the prolonged abuse, before the pain and self-hatred and the sorrow that haunted his adult self’s eyes...this was how he needed to be.

“Phil!”

“Very good, very, very good, Clint!” Clint beamed, missing a front tooth, and Sam smiled and waved Phil over, gesturing to the kitchen. Clint nuzzled Sam’s shoulder, cooing, and Sam chuckled, one long-fingered hand carding through his curly hair.  “C’mon, let’s make a snack and do some coloring, okay?”

“Okay!”

“O-okay…” Phil gulped a little bit, and followed them in, where an array of Avenger coloring books covered the table, and what was obviously a hasty set of purchases of kid-friendly snacks were piled on the counter. Sam caught his gaze and nodded, very, very carefully, getting Clint sat on a booster chair that Phil was damn sure they hadn’t had yesterday. The older man pitched his voice low as he handed the kid crayons and a coloring book; Clint took to it like a duck to water, and now Sam could come around the kitchen island and start sorting through bags.

“...I got called thirty minutes ago by Tony, who was frantic that they had a small child now on site, and that they had nothing said child would need. He’s just lucky I have a whole herd of younger cousins, nieces, and nephews that I was already getting supplies for. I just flew up here, and since I was the only person Clint recognized from his past life...well…”

“You’re on babysitting duty?”

“He’s easier than anyone else, and he’s a friend, so yes. Besides...you and Natasha caught Amora, so hopefully, this will ease off sooner.”

“...you think so?”

“I hope so. That’s all I can do. But right now…” He grinned and started making up ants-on-a-log, the celery, peanut butter, and M&M’s smelling delicious in the wake of the fight. He got a wicked grin as Phil’s stomach rumbled, and handed him two long sticks of celery. “You get to make dirt cups.”

“Dirt what?”  
“You heard me.” And that was how two hours later, all of the Avengers (plus a handful of friends, such as Colonel Rhodes, Pepper, and a friendly blonde lady by the name of Carol Danvers) were sorting through the innumerable pizza boxes and dessert cups full of crushed Oreos and chocolate pudding, and keeping all alcoholic beverages locked up. And through it all, Clint flitted between each person, his little plate long since discarded for taking tidbits from all the people who thought he was cute. Phil had to admit, he was the worst offender, and Clint knew it; that little shit would sidle up to him, all adorable in his over-sized shirt and drooled-on puppy, and before Phil knew it, he was cuddled up to his side in the armchair, munching on half a stolen pizza. But...he stroked the soft blond curls on the little guy’s head and watched him as those big blue eyes got droopy.

Natasha still hadn’t come out of hiding; from what Tony had said, she’d finished helping him and Bruce, and gone downstairs, interrogating Amora as to her reasons for transforming both of their fellow Avenger and their group handler. None of them were terribly worried that she hadn’t cracked yet, though; Sam had laughed when Phil had voiced his worry that Natasha needed to eat, and shown him that she’d ordered in an expensive meal...and was likely eating it slowly just to screw with the witch.

“Anyone who’s used that much energy in such a short time will need to replenish it, and doing this will leave her hungry and angry...then just hungry.” Stephen had sounded rather dark at that, and Phil almost wanted to ask him if he disapproved...when he huffed a little and rolled his shoulders. “And she deserves it. I hope the good Widow will make her suffer for what she’s wrought.” That had been an hour ago now…

“Hey, Stephen, any idea if Clint’s going to be the same as Phil?” The adept smiled a little and scraped the last chocolatey remains from his own dessert cup, licking the spoon clean before answering.

“In all honesty, by the end of tonight, he will have aged some. Not all the way back to his proper age, but the spell won’t last long. I predict that by the end of the month, he’ll be a teenager, if not a little bit older, and with luck, Phil will be older himself.” He perked up at that, and the mage grinned outright, nodding. “In fact, being in the vicinity of such strong spells, they’ll unravel one another much faster. Phil, your birthday should be the absolute latest that the spell endures, but I will be in every other day, just to be safe until it really starts coming to pieces.”

“That’s...that’s awesome, thank you…”

“...No, thank you. Thank you for taking this so well...and especially for doing what you did today...and what you’re doing now.” He chuckled softly and pointed to Clint...who was fast asleep against Phil’s side, curled up around his newfound doggy and looking...a pang of something sharp snapped in his chest, and Phil swallowed back the sudden rush of tears as he slowly, carefully gathered the little boy up in his arms, cradling him. Clint looked absolutely at peace, and Phil noticed that he wasn’t the only one who looked a little choked up. Clint hardly moved, just snuggled up enough to tuck his head under Phil’s chin, and the teen stroked his back, slowly moving through the now silent adults and heading up to not his room, but Clint’s apartment.

Jarvis let him in, keeping the lights low as he padded into a place that was, surprisingly, not unlike his own rooms...but where his were all sleek dark wood and precision, Clint’s was...not messy, but eclectic. His personality, both serious and joking, filled the bookshelves and the large entertainment center, spilled onto the countertops of his battered kitchenette, and led into a bedroom that was, surprisingly enough, only a little bit of a mess. The bed wasn’t made right, and while there were a few shirts that had missed the hamper, the carpeting here was a soft, plush pile that made Phil nearly groan, wiggling his toes in it for a moment before moving to draw back the large purple duvet. He laid the little boy down in it, smiling as he yawned, then settled, vigoriously chewing on one dark brown puppy dog ear in his sleep, and Phil tucked him in, smoothing down the curls once more before he retreated.

“...Phillip?” Jarvis’s voice was soft, questioning, and Phil swallowed again.

“Yeah?”

“...He will be alright. I swear it.”

“I...I know...um...can...can I stay on the couch? Just...just in case he wakes up from a nightmare?”

“...I think that can be arranged. There is a spare blanket in the closet, third shelf to your right, and I am quite sure the young sir will not miss one of his half dozen pillows.” Phil laughed softly at that, and snagged one of the plump pillows and the large comforter, his anxiety fading, just a little bit.

“Thanks, Jarvis.”

“My pleasure. Go, rest now; the morning will come quite soon enough.” And wasn’t that the truth. He took himself to the couch and curled up, thinking he’d be up for another long while...but before he knew it, sleep took him.

 

* * *

 

Lightning crackled across the skies, as thunder rumbled and growled through the building. Stephen cast dark eyes to the clouds outside, and turned his gaze back to the others.

“He comes.”

“Yeah, we figured that.”

“Do you think things will get worse with him here?” That was Carol, worry softening her voice, and Bruce sighed, pinching his nose and removing his glasses.

“I wish we knew for sure, Carol. But...Amora was Loki’s lover, and from what little Thor’s mentioned to Jane, she also wanted our favorite Asgardian. Who knows what will happen now? And who knows what Loki will do?”

“All we can do is wait it out...and protect those two.” That was Natasha, looking gray and drained from Amora’s constant barrage of poisonous barbs and half-lies, and she contemplated the wine in her glass, eyes worn and tired. “They are...they cannot defend themselves. Especially Clint.” She was interrupted by a particularly vicious crackle of lightning outside on the landing pad, and almost as one, the gathered Avengers and company turned to watch as a tall man in a long red cloak landed heavily, hammer hanging at his side. Tony raised a glass of bourbon to him, and knocked it back with practiced ease; Steve had the grace not to wince.

“Thor’s not going to like this…”

“No, he won’t. But he’ll like it even less when he finds out what Natasha got out of her. I just hope that they didn’t leave Loki unguarded.”

“...You know they wouldn’t. And you know just as well that it doesn’t matter; he’s got allies everywhere.”

“Maybe so. But then again...so do we.”


End file.
